EPISTLE XI.

TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND

WILLIAM LOWNES, Esq.

AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED TREATISE IN FOLIO, CALLED THE LAND-TAX BILL.

WHE

HEN poets print their works, the fcrib-
bling crew

Stick the bard o'er with bays, like Christmas-pew:
Can meagre poetry fuch fame deferve?
Can poetry, that only writes to starve ?
And fhall no laurel deck that famous head,
Im which the Senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires.
O had 1 Virgil's force, to fing the man,
Whofe learn'd lines can millions raise per ann.
Great Lownds's praife fhould fwell the trump of
fame,

And rapes and wapentakes refound his name!
If the blind poet gain'd a long renown
By finging every Grecian chief and town;
Sure Lownds's profe much greater fame requires,"
Which sweetly counts five thousand kuights
and fquires,

Their feats, their cities, parishes, and shires
Thy copious preamble fo fmoothly runs,
Taxes no more appear like legal duns:
Lords, Knights, and Squires, th' Affeffor's power
obey ;

We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.
Ah! why did Coningsby thy works defame!
That author's long harangue betrays his name.
After his fpeeches can his pen fucceed?
Though forc'd to hear, we're not oblig'd to read.
Under what fcience fhall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not poet born and bred.
Or dost thou boaft th' Hiftorian's lasting pen.
Whofe annals are the acts of worthy men?
No. Satire is thy talent; and each lath
Makes the rich mifer tremble o'er his cash.
What on the Drunkard can be more fevere,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?

Ev'n Button's wits are nought, compar'd to
thee,

Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his

tea;

While thou through Britain's diftant ifle fhalt fpread,

In every hundred and divifion read.
Criticks in claffes oft' interpolate,
But every word of thine is fix'd as fate.

Some works come forth at morn, but die at night,
In blazing fringes round a tallow-light.
Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like Steele (when unaffted by a friend) :
But thou shalt live a year, in spite of Fate;
And where's your author boafts a longer date ?
Poets of old have fuch a wondrous power,
That with their verfes they could raise a tower:
But in thy profe a greater force is found:
What poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by fowing dragons' teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vaft army from the peifonous feed.

Thy labours, Lownds, can greater wonders do;
Thou raifeft armies, and cantt pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen; thy anuals cease;
Why need we armies when the land's in peace?
Soldiers are perfe& devils in their way;
When once they're rais'd, ther're curfed hard to
lay.

EPISTLE XII.

ΤΟ Α

YOUNG LADY.

WITH SOME LAMPREYS.

WITH lovers 'twas of old the fashion

By prefents to convey their pallion;

No matter what the gift they fent,
The lady faw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,

Took the boar's head her Hero gave her;
Nor could the bristly thing affront her;
'Twas a fit prefent from a hunter.
When fquires fend woodcocks to the dame,
It ferves to fhew their abfent flame,
Some by a fnip of woven hair,
In pofied lokets, bribe the fair.
How many mercenary matches

Have fprung from diamond-rings and watches ?
But hold-a ring, a watch, a locket,
Would drain at once a poet's pocket;
He fhould fend fongs that coft him nought,
Nor ev'n be prodigal of thought.

Why then fend Lampreys? Fye, for shame! 'Twill fet a virgin's blood on flame, This to fifteen a proper gift!

It might lend fixty-five a lift.

I know your maiden aunt will fcold: And think my present somewhat bold. I fee her lift her hands and eyes: "What! eat it, nice; eat Spanish flies ! "Lamprey's a moft immodeft diet: "You'll neither wake nor fleep in quiet. "Should I to night cat Sago-cream, "I would make me blufh to tell my dream: "If I eat lobster, 'tis fo warming, "That every man I fee looks charming, "Wherefore had not the filthy fellow "Laid Rochefter upon your pillow? "I vow and fwear, I think the prefent "Had been as modeft and as decent. "Who has her virtue in her power "Each day has its unguarded hour; "Always in danger of undoing, "A prawn, a fhrimp, may prove our ruin!

?

The fhepherdefs, who lives on saliad, To cool her youth, controls her palate, "Should Dian's maids turn liquorifh livers, "And of huge lampreys rob the rivers, "Then, all befide cach glade and visto, "You'd fee Nymphs lying like Califo. "The man, who meant to heat your blood, "Needs not himself fuch vicious food-" In this, I own, your aunt is clear, I fent you what I well might fpare:

For,

For, when I fee you (without joking)," Your eyes, lips, breafts, are so provoking, They fet my heart more cock-a-hoop, Than could whole feas of craw-fish foup.

EPISTLE XIII.

TO A LADY,

ON HER

PASSION FOR OLD CHINA..

ecftafies her bofom fire!

W How her eyes languifh with defire!

How bleft, how happy, fhould I be,
Were that fond glance bettow'd on me !
New doubts and fears within me war:
What rival's near? a china jar.

China's the paffion of her foul:
A cup, a plate, a difh, a bowl,
Can kindle wishes in her breast,
Inflame with joy, or break her reft.

Some gems collect, fome medals prize, And view the ruft with lovers' eyes; Some court the ftars at midnight hours; Some doat on nature's charms in flowers; But every beauty I can trace

In Laura's mind, in Laura's face;
My ftars are in this brighter fphere,
My lily and my rofe is here.

Philofophers, more grave than wife,
Hunt fcience down in butterflies;
Or, fondly poring on a spider,
Stretch human contemplation wider.
Foffils give joy to Galen's foul;
He digs for knowledge, like a mole;
In fhells fo learn'd, that all agree

No fish that fwims knows more than he!
In fuch purfuits if wisdom lies,
Whe, Laura, fhall thy tafte defpife?
When I fome antique jar behold,
Or white, or blue, or fpeck'd with gold;
Veffels fo pure, and fo`refin'd,
Appear the types of woman-kind :
Are they not valued for their beauty,
Too fair, too fine, for houfhold duty?
With flowers and gold and azure dy'd,
Of every houfe the grace and pride?
How white, how polifh'd is their skin,
And valued most when only feen!
She, who before was highest priz❜d,
Is for a crack or flaw defpis'd.

I grant they're frail; yet they're fo rare,
The treasure cannot coft too dear!
But man is made of coarfer fuff,
And ferves convenience well enough;
He's a strong earthen veffel, made
For drudging, labour, toil, and trade
And, when wives lofe their other self,
With eafe they bear the lofs of delf.
Hufbands, more covetous than fage,
Condemn this china-buying rage;
They count that woman's prudence little,
Who fets her heart on things fo brittle.
VOL. V!!.

But are thofe wife men's inclinations
Fix'd on more ftrong, more fure foundations?
If all that's frail we muft defpise,
No human view or fcheme is wife.
Are not Ambition's hopes as weak?
They fwell like bubbles, fhine, and break.
A Courtier's promife is fo flight,
'Tis made at noon, and broke at night.
What pleasure's fure? The Mifs you keep
Breaks both your fortune and your fleep..
The man who loves a country-life
Breaks all the comforts of his wife;
And, if he quit his farm and plough,
His wife in town may break her vow.
Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm,
For each new winter breaks a charm;
And woman's not like china fold,
But cheaper grows in growing old;
Then quickly choose the prudent part,
Or elfe you break a faithful het.

gueft,

Would in one mixture comprehend a feast,
With due proportion and judicious care
He fills his difh with different forts of fare,
Fishes and fowls deliciously unite,

To feaft at once the tafte, the fmell and fight.
So, Bernard, muft a Mifcellany be
Compounded of all kinds of
poetry;
The Mufes' olio, which all states may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Would't thou for Mifcellanies raife thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Mufes in the piece confpire;
The lyric bard muft ftrike th' harmonious lyre;
Heroic ftrains must here and there be found,
And nervous fenfe be fung in lofty found;
Let elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill fome pages with melodious woe;
Let not your amorous fongs too numerous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love;
Satire muft interfere, whofe pointed rage
May lash the madness of a vicious age;
Satire! the Mufe that never fails to hit,
For if there's fcandal, to be fure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Thofe fwell the piece, but very rarely pleafe;
Let fhort-breath'd epigram its force confine,
And ftrike at follies in a fingle line.

Tranflations fhould throughout the work be fown, And Homer's god-like Mufe be made our own;

3 E

Horace

Horace in ufeful numbers should be sung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue.
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard difdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain;
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the liftening ear with tales of love.
Let every claffic in the volume fhine,
And each contribute to thy great defign;
Through various fubjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change.
Variety's the fource of joy below,

From whence fill fresh revolving pleafures flow.
In books and love, the mind one end purfues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.

Where Buckingham will condefcend to give, That honour'd place to diftant times must live; When noble Sheffield ftrikes the trembling ftrings, The little Loves rejoice, and clap their wings; Anacreon lives, they cry, th' harmonious fwain Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain, fis he-our loft Anacreon lives again. But, when th' illuftrious poet foars above The fportive revels of the God of Love, Like Maro's Mufe, he takes a loftier flight, And towers beyond the wondering Cupid's fight. If thou would't have thy volume ftand the teft,

And of all others be reputed beft,

Let Congreve teach the liftening groves to mourn, As when he wept o'er fair Paftora's urn.

Let Prior's Mufe with foftening accents move, Soft as the ftrains of conftant Imma's love:

Or let hi- fancy choose fome jovial theme,

As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream;
Prior th' admiring reader entertains
With Chaucer's humour, and with Spenfer's
ftrains.

Waller in Granville lives; when Mira fings, With Wallers hand he ftrikes the founding ftrings. With sprightly turns his noble genius fhines, And manly fenfe adorns his eafy lines.

On ddifon's fweet lays attention waits, And filence guards the place while he repeats; His Mufe alike on every fubject charms, Whether the paints the god of love, or arms: In him pathetic Ovid fings again,

And Homer's Iliad fhines in his Campaign.

Whenever Garth fhall raife his fprightly fong, Senfe flows in eafy numbers from his tongue; Great Phoebus in his learned fon we fee, Alike in phyfic, as in poetry.

When Pope's harmonious Mufe with pleasure

This hour deftruction brings on all your race:
See the pleas'd tenants duteous offerings bear,
Turkeys and geese, and grocer's sweetest ware;
With the new health the ponderous tankard flows,
And old October reddens every nofe.
Beagles and fpaniels round his cradle ftand,
Kifs his moift lip, and gently lick his hand.
He joys to hear the fhrill horn's echoing founds,
And learns to lifp the names of all the hounds.
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
Barley fhall in paternal acres grow

1 he bee fhall fip the fragrant dew from flowers,
To give metheglin for his morning-hours;
For him the clustering hop fhall climb the p es,
And his own orchard fparkle in his bowls.

His Sire's exploits he now with wonder hears, The monftrous tales indulge his greedy ears;

How

How, when youth ftrung his nerves and warm'd his veins,

He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains.
He leads the ftaring infant through the hall,
Points out the horny fpoils that grace the wall;
Tells, how this ftag through three whole coun-
ties fled,

What rivers fwam, where bay'd, and where he bled,

Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Defcribes the defperate chace, and all his cheats;
How in one day, beneath his furious speed,
He tir'd feven courfers of the fleetest breed ;
How high the pale he leap'd, how wide the
ditch,

When the hound tore the haunches of the witch !

Thofe ftories, which defcend from fon to fon,
The forward boy (hall one day make his own.
Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws
nigh,

That calls the darling from thy tender eye;
How fhall his fpirit brook the rigid rules,
And the long tyranny of grammar-schools?
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod,
Lafh'd into Latin by the tingling rod;
No, let him never feel that smart difgrace;
Why should he wifer prove than all his race?.
When ripening youth with down o'erfhades his

chin,

This memorable day his eager fpeed
Shad urge with bloody heel the rifing fteed.
O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
Think on the nuurders of a five-bar gate!
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries,
Low in the duft his groveling honour lies,
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar bone.
O venturous youth, thy thirst of game allay ;
May't thou furvive the perils of this day!
He shall furvive; and in late years be fent
To inore away debates in parliament.

The time fhall come, when his more folid fenfe
With pod important shall the laws difpente;
A Juice with grave Juftices shall fit;
He praife their wifdom, they admire his wit,

No greyhound fhall attend the tenant's pace,
No rufty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons fhall leave their covers void of fear,
Nor dread the thievith net or triple fpear;
Poachers fhall tremble at his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'&
game.

Affit me, Bacchus, and ye drunken powers, To fing his friendships and his midnight hours!

Why doft thou glory in thy ftrength of beer, Firm-cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year; Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy fign, Or when his languid rays in Scorpio fhine? Think on the mifchiefs which from thence have fprung!

ft arms with curfes dire the wrathful tongue; Foul fcandal to the lying lip affords,

And prompts the memory with injurious words. O where is wifdom when by this o'erpower'd ! And wilt thou ftill, O Squire, brew ale fo ftrong? The ftate is cenfur'd, and the maid deflower'd! Hear then the dictates of prophetic fong.

Methinks I fee him in his hall appear, Where the long table floats in clammy beer, 'Midit mugs aud glaffes fhatter'd o'er the floor, Dead drunk, his fervile crew fupinely fnore ; Triumphant, o'er the proßrate brutes the stands, The mighty bumper trembles in his hands; Boldly he drinks, and, like his glorious fires,. In copious gulphs of potent ale expires.

THE TOILETTE.

A TOWN ECLOGUE.

LYDIA.

NOW twenty fprings had cloth'd the park

with green,

Since Lydia knew the boffom of fifteen;
No lovers now her morning hours moleft,
And catch her at her toilette half-undrift;
The thundering knocker wakes the fireet no more,
No chairs, no coaches, crowd her filent door;
Her midnights once at cards and hazard fled,
Which now, alas! the dreams away in bed.
Around her wait Shocks. monkeys, and mockaws,
To fill the place of fops and perjur'd beaux;
In the fe fhe views the mimickry of man,
And fmiles when grinning Pug gailants her fan;
When Poll repeats, the founds deceive her ear
(For founds like his once told her Damon's care);
With thefe alone her tedious mornings pafs;
Or, at the dumb devotion of her glass,
She fmooths her brow and frizzles forth her hairs
And fancies youthful drefs gives youthful airs;
With crimfor wool fhe fixes every grace,
That not a blufh can difcompofe her face.
Reclin'd upon her arm, the penfive fate,
And cu s'd th' inconftancy of youth too late.
O-Youth! Ofpring of life! for ever loft
No more my nante faall reign the favourite toast;
On glafs no more the diamond grave my name,
And rhymes mif-pelt record a lover's flame:

312

No.

But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume?
I own, her taper shape is form'd to please,
Yet if you faw her unconfin'd by flays!
She doubly to fifteen may make pretence;
Alike we read it in her face and fenfe.
Her reputation! but that never yet
Could check the freedoms of a young coquette.
Why will ye then, vain fops, her eyes believe?
Her eyes can, like your perjur'd tongues, deceive.
What fhall I do? how spend the hateful day?
At chapel fhall I wear the morn away?
Who there frequents at these unmodifh hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizzled towers,
And grey religious maids? My prefence there
Amid that fober train would own despair;
Nor am I yet fo cld; nor is my glance
As yet fixt wholly to devotion's trance.

Straight then I'll dress, and take my wonted
range

Through every Indian fhop through all the

Change;

Where the tall jar erects his coftly pride,
With antick fhapes in china's azure dy d;
There careless lies the rich brocade unroll'd;
Here fhines a cabinet with burnish'd gold:
But then remembrance will my grief renew,
'Twas there the raffling dice falfe Damon threw;
The raffling dice to him decide the prize;
'Twas there he first convers'd with Chloe's eyes.
Hence fprung th' ill-fated caufe of all my fmart;
To me the toy he gave, to her his heart.
But foon thy perjury in the gift was found,
The fhiver'd china dropt upon the ground;
Sure emen that thy vows would faithlefs prove;
Frail was thy prefent, frailer was thy love.

O happy Poll, in wiry prifon pent;
Thou ne'er haft known what love or rivals meant,
And Pug with pleafure can his fetters bear,
Who ne'er believ'd the vows that lovers (wear!
How am I curft (unhappy and forlorn)
With perjury, with love, and rival's fcorn!
Falfe are the loofe coquette's inveigling airs,
Falfe is the pompous grief of youthful heirs,
Falle is the cringing courtier's plighted word,
Falfe are the dice when gamefters ftamp the board,
Falfe is the fprightly widow's public tear;
Yet thefe to Damon's oaths are all fincere.

Fly from perfidious man, the fex difdain;
Let fervile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modish life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.

He games; he fwears; he drinks; he fights; he

But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can perhaps an injur'd bed repay;
Perhaps her patient temper can behold
The rival of her love adorn'd with gold.
Powder'd with diamonds; free from thought and

care,

A hufband's fullen humours fhe can bear.

Why are these fobs? and why these streaming eyes?

Is love the caufe? No, I the fex despise;
I hate, I load his bafe perfidious name.
Yet if he should but fain a rival flame?
But Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains;
To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.

Thus love-fick Lydia rav'd. Her maid appears;
A band-box in her steady hand the bears.
How well this ribband's glofs becomes your face!
She cries, in raptures; then, fo fweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! fo bright! fo fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-drefs owes its air.
Straight Lydia fmil'd; the comb adjufts her locks,
And at the play-house Harry keeps her box.

A TOWN ECLOGUE.
DORIS and MELANTHE.

AINT James's noon-day bell for prayers had
toll'd,

And coaches to the patron's levee roll'd.
When Doris rose. And now through all the room
From flowery Tea exhales a fragrant fume.
Cup after cup they fipt, and talk'd by fits,
For Doris here, and there Melanthe fits.
Doris was young, a laughter-loving dame,
Nice of her own alike and others' fame :
Melanthe's tongue could well a tale advance,
And fooner gave than funk a circumstance;
Lock'd in her memory, fecrets never dy'd.
Doris begun: Melanthe thus reply'd,
DORIS.

Sylvia the vain fantastic. Fop admires;
The Rake's loofe gallantry her bofom fires;
Sylvia like that is vain, like this fhe roves;
In liking them, the but herself approves.
MEL ANTHE.

Laura rails on at men, the fex reviles,
Their vice condemns, or at their folly fmiles.
Why should her tongue in juft refentment fail,
Since men at her with equal freedom rail?