Couches and crippled chairs I know,
And garrets hung with green;
I know the swing of sinful hack,
Where many damsels cry alack.
With a fa, la, la.

III.

1

Then why to Courts should I repair,
Where's such ado with Townshend?
To hear each mortal stamp and swear,
And every speech with "Zounds" end;
To hear them rail at honest Sunderland,2
And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.3
With a fa, la, la.

IV.

4

Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun,*

5

Like Grafton court the Germans;
Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown,

6

Like Meadows run to sermons;

To court ambitious men may roam,
But I and Marlbro' stay at home.
With a fa, la, la.

V.

In truth, by what I can discern,
Of courtiers, 'twixt you three,
Some wit you have, and more may learn
From Court, than Gay or me:

Lord Townshend, Secretary of State, was dismissed in 1716.

2 The Earl of Sunderland, Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland.

Ireland.-Curll.

4 Augustus Schutz, Equerry to Prince George. See Imitations of Horace, Bk. i. Ep. i. 112.

5 Charles, second Duke of Grafton. Pickenbourg and Meadows

Honour.

were Maids of

Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet,
To sup with us on milk and quiet.
With a fa, la, la.

VI.

At Leicester Fields, a house full high,'
With door all painted green,
Where ribbons wave upon the tie,
(A milliner, I mean ;)

There may you meet us three to three,
For Gay can well make two of me.2
With a fa, la, la.

VII.

But should you catch the prudish itch,
And each become a coward,
Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich,3
And sometimes Mistress Howard; 4
For virgins, to keep chaste, must go
Abroad with such as are not so.
With a fa, la, la.

VIII.

And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends:
God send the King safe landing;'
And make all honest ladies friends
To armies that are standing;
Preserve the limits of these nations,
And take off ladies' limitations.

With a fa, la, la.

1 Leicester House, the residence of the Prince of Wales.

2 Gay was a large, stout man.

3 Lady Rich, wife of Sir Robert Rich, a correspondent of Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.

4 Mrs. Howard, afterwards Countess of Suffolk. See Moral Essays, ii. 157.

5 This ballad was written anno 1717.

SONG,

BY A PERSON OF QUALITY.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.

I.

LUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,

Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart; I a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art.

II.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming,
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

III.

Thus the Cyprian goddess, weeping,
Mourned Adonis, darling youth:
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.

IV.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

V.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Armed in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.

VI.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

VII.

Melancholy smooth Mœander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crowned.

VIII.

Thus when Philomela, drooping,
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.

SANDYS' GHOST;

OR,

A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW
OVID'S METAMORPHOSES,

AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY
PERSONS OF QUALITY.1

E Lords and Commons, men of wit,
And pleasure about town;
Read this ere you translate one bit
Of books of high renown.

In 1718 Sir Samuel Garth undertook an edition of Ovid's Metamorphoses, translated by several hands: he himself translated the fourteenth and part of the fifteenth books. Sandys' translation of the Metamorphoses was published in 1626.

Beware of Latin authors all!

Nor think

your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a Berlin:

For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expense,

Nor standish well japanned avails
To writing of good sense.

Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,

In woeful wise did sore affright
A wit and courtly 'squire.

Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth
Like puppy tame that uses
To fetch and carry, in his mouth,
The works of all the Muses.

Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil;
And sell his soul for vanity,
To rhyming and the Devil?

A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about;
Within the same did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.

Now as he scratched to fetch up thought,
Forth popped the sprite so thin;
And from the key-hole bolted out,

All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,

And ruff composed most duly;

This 'squire he dropped his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely.