As swift as Time put round the Glass,
And husband well Life's little Space;
Perhaps your Sun which shines so bright,
May set in everlasting Night.
Or if the Sun again should rise,
Death, ere the Morn, may close our Eyes,
Then drink before it be too late,
And snatch the present Hour from Fate.
Come, fill a Bumper, fill it round,
Let Mirth and Wit and Wine abound;
In these alone True Wisdom lies,
For to be Merry's to be Wise.
O ruddier than the Cherry,
O sweeter than the Berry,
O Nymph more bright
Than Moonshine Night
Like Kidlings blith and merry.
Ripe as the Melting Cluster
No Lilly has such Lustre,
Yet hard to tame
As raging Flame
And fierce as Storms that bluster.
Written in the Year 1732
WHEN Delia on the plain appears,
Aw'd by a thousand tender fears,
I wou'd approach, but dare not move;
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
Whene'er she speaks, my ravish'd ear
No other voice but her's can hear,
No other wit but her's approve;
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
If she some other youth commend,
Though I was once his fondest friend,
His instant enemy I prove;
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
When she is absent, I no more
Delight in all that pleas'd before,
The clearest spring, or shadiest grove;
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
When fond of pow'r, of beauty vain,
Her nets she spread for ev'ry swain,
I strove to hate, but vainly strove ;
Tell me, my Heart, if this be Love?
GEORGE LYTTELTON, LORD LYTTELTON.
UNLESS with my Amanda blest
In vain I twine the woodbine bower;
Unless to deck her sweeter breast,
In vain I rear the breathing flower:
Awaken'd by the genial year,
In vain the birds around me sing ; In vain the fresh'ning fields appear: Without my love there is no spring.
FROM A HINT IN THE MINOR POETS
No! not for Those of Women born
Not so unlike the Die is cast;
For, after all our Vaunt and Scorn,
How very small the Odds at last!
Him, rais'd to Fortune's utmost Top,
With Him beneath her Feet compare ;
And One has nothing more to hope,
And One has nothing more to fear.
SAMUEL WESLEY THE YOUNGER.
A PIPE OF TOBACCO
IN IMITATION OF SIX SEVERAL AUTHORS
IMITATION V [POPE]
Vanescit Solis ad ortus
Fumus.
BLEST Leaf! whose aromatic Gales dispense
To Templars Modesty, to Parsons sense:
So raptur'd Priests, at fam'd Dodona's Shrine
Drank Inspiration from the Steam divine.
Poison that cures, a Vapour that affords
Content, more solid than the Smile of Lords:
Rest to the Weary, to the Hungry Food,
The last kind Refuge of the Wise and Good:
Inspir'd by Thee, dull Cits adjust the Scale
Of Europe's Peace, when other statesmen fail.
By Thee protected, and thy Sister, Beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the Bailiff near.
Nor less, the Critic owns thy genial Aid,
While supperless he plies the piddling Trade.
What tho' to Love and soft Delights a Foe,
By Ladies hated, hated by the Beau,
Yet social Freedom, long to Courts unknown,
Fair Health, fair Truth, and Virtue are thy own.
Come to thy Poet, come with healing Wings,
And let me taste Thee unexcis'd by Kings.
ISAAC HAWKINS BROWNE.
INSCRIBED TO HIS PARTICULAR FRIEND
MR. C[UTHBERT] J[ACKSON]
Orandum est, ut sit mens sana in corpore sano.
BY THE LATE MR. MATTHEW Green, of THE CUSTOM-
HOUSE, London.
THIS motly piece to you I send,
Who always were a faithful friend,
Who, if disputes should happen hence,
Can best explain the author's sense,
And, anxious for the publick weal,
Do, what I sing, so often feel.
The want of method pray excuse,
Allowing for a vapour'd Muse;
Nor, to a narrow path confin'd,
Hedge in by rules a roving mind.
The child is genuine, you can trace,
Throughout, the fire's transmitted face.
Nothing is stol'n: my Muse, tho' mean,
Draws from the spring, she finds within ;
Nor vainly buys, what Gildon sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.
First know, my friend, I do not mean
To write a treatise on the spleen;
Nor to prescribe, when nerves convulse,
Nor mend th' alarum watch, your pulse:
If I am right, your question lay,
What course I take to drive away
The day-mare spleen, by whose false pleas
Men prove mere suicides in ease;
And how I do myself demean
In stormy world to live serene.
To cure the mind's wrong biass, spleen,
Some recommend the bowling-green;
Some, hilly walks; all, exercise;
Fling but a stone, the giant dies;
Laugh and be well; monkeys have been
Extreme good doctors for the spleen;
And kitten, if the humour hit,
Has harlequin'd away the fit.
Since mirth is good on this behalf,
At some partic'lars let us laugh.
Witlings, brisk fools curs't with half sense,
That stimulates their impotence,
Who buzz in rhime, and, like blind flies,
Err with their wings for want of eyes;
Poor authors worshipping a calf;
Deep tragedies, that make us laugh;
A strict dissenter saying grace;
A lecturer preaching for a place;
Folks, things prophetic to dispense,
Making the past the future tense;
The popish dubbing of a priest;
Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd;
Green-apron'd Pythonissa's rage;
Great Esculapius on his stage;
A miser starving to be rich;
The prior of Newgate's dying speech;
A jointur'd widow's ritual state;
Two Jews disputing tête à tête ;
New almanacks compos'd by seers;
Experiments on felon's ears;
Disdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply
The superb muscle of the eye;
A coquet's April-weather face;
A Queenb'rough mayor behind his mace;
And fops in military shew,
Are sovereign for the case in view.
Now, if untir'd, consider friend,
What I avoid, to gain my end.
I never am at Meeting seen,
Meeting, that region of the spleen ;
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