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VERSES, Decusioned by the pusillanimous conduct of a Magis
trate, in a Riot which happened at Frome, in Somersetshire.
Ye conservators of the public peace,
A large tumultuous body of the poor Assembled lately at a tradesman's door, With honest, but mistaken zeal inspir’d, Against a scribbling engine they conspir’d, And, driving ceremony far away, Through doors and windows forc'd their eager way, Seiz'd the devoted victim, neck and heels, And broke the cranks, the cylinders, and wheels, Dealt such destruction on the poor machine, That nought but scatter'd fragments could be seen. In vain mechanic skill, and plaistic art, With nice construction moulded ev'ry part; In vain the ingenuity of inan Contriv’d, and to perfection brought the plan; In vain each finish’d, well adjusted wheel, Mov'd round its axis with consummate skill
I; In vain its nicely fashion’d pow'rs display'd A source of great advantage to the trade;
In vain, tho' hid from sight its polish'd frame,
'Twas well they did, for not a justice came
And, when the messenger detail'd the news,
Do not our bosoms with resentment glow,
Strict is the duty of a magistrate, A duty, which he dares not violate; The laws enjoin activity and zeal, And close attention to the public weal. To fly froin danger, howsoever near, To shrink through favour, or decline through fear, To say to those who for assistance come, “ Self preservation bids me stay at home!” In such a violation of your trust, So pusillanimous, and so unjust, That no excuse, but illness, should avail To save your Worship from the county goal.
Away! then, with such useless men of straw, And give us better guardians of the law;
Men with no terror quiv'ring in their veins,
Such men alone should execute the laws,
Tom meets his friend, and strait complains
sad and doleful strains :
“Ah, Jack, what must I do? My sweetheart's wed! the semistress fair ; Eternal grief must be my share !
You smile-but it's too true!
“ But nothing mads me more than t see Who the man is she's chang'd for me ;
A Barber, on my soul!” “ You fool," says Jack, “what makes you mourn? Pray, whither should the Needle tu If not unto the Pole?"
To the lily's milk-white glow,
Iv'ry bring from Africk's shore,
In Arabia's land exhale, Odours from the spicy gale; Rich perfumes from India bring, Catch the meadow's sweets in spring;
More the picture to adorn, Draw the blushes of the morn; In Aurora's flowing vest, Lightly be the damsel drest;
Shape and air of Venus show, Let the graces smiles bestow; Lastly, to complete the whole, Give the nymph Minerva's soul;