So, Bernard, muft a mifcellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The mufes O'lio, which all taftes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Wouldst thou for mifcellanies raise thy fame;
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the mufes in the piece conspire,

The lyrick bard muft ftrike th' harmonious lyre;
Heroick 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 am'rous fongs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love;
Satyr must interfere, whofe pointed rage
May lafh the madness of a vicious age;
Satyr, the muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's fcandal, to be sure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with pindarick lays,
Thofe fwell the piece, but very rarely please:
Let short-breath'd epigram its force confine,
And ftrike at follies in a fingle line.

Tranflations fhould throughout the work be fown,
And Homer's godlike mufe be made our own;

Horace

Horace in ufeful numbers should be fung,

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 lift'ning ear with tales of love.
Let ev'ry claffick 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 ftill fresh revolving pleasures 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 piece to distant times must live;:
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling ftrings,
The little loves rejoyce, and clap their wings;
Anacreon, lives, they cry, th harmonious fwain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted firain,
'Tis he―our lost Anacreon lives again.
But when th' illuftrious poet foars above
The sportive revels of the god of love,

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VERSES defign'd to be prefix'd to Mr. LINTOTT's Mifcellany.

S

OME Colinaus praife, fome Bleau,

Others account them but fo fo;

Some Stephens to the reft prefer,

And fome efteem old Elzevir :

Others with Aldus would befot us;

I, for my part, admire Lintottus.

Those printed unknown tongues, 'tis faid,

Which fome can't conftrue, moft can't read;

What Lintott offers to your hand,

They print their names in letters small,

But LINTOT ftands in Capital;

Author and he with equal grace

Appear, and ftare you in the face.

Oft in an Aldus or a
for a Plantin,

A page is blotted, or leaf wanting;

of

Of Lintott's books this can't be faid,
All fair, and not fo much as read.
Their books are useful but to few,
A fcholar, or a wit or two:
Lintott's for general ufe are fit,

Sweet William's farewel to Black-ey'd Sufan.

A

BALLAD

Set by Mr. LEVERIDGE.

A

By Mr. GAY.

LL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,

The ftreamers waving in the wind,

When black-ey'd Sufan came on board,

Oh! where fhall I my true love find?

Tell me ye jovial failors tell me true,

If my fweet William, if my sweet William fails among

the crew.

William