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Shuffles about, screws his chop-fallen face,
And no whipp'd gig fo often shifts his place ;
Then gives his sage advice with wondrous skill,
Which no man ever heeds, or ever will :
Yet he perfifts, instructing to confound,
And with his cane points out the dubious ground.

Strong Nimrod now, fresh as the rising dawn,
Appears ; his finewy limbs and solid brawn
The gazing crowd admires. He nor in courts
Delights, nor pompous balls; but rural sports
Are his soul's joy. At the horn's brisk alarms
He hakes th' unwilling Phillis from his arms;
Mounts with the sun, begins his bold career,
To chase the wily fox or rambling deer.
So Hercules, by Juno's dread command,
From savage beasts and monsters freed the land.
Hark! from the covert of yon gloomy brake
Harmonious thunder rolls, the forests shake !
Men, boys, and dogs, impatient for the 'chace,
Tumultuous transports flush in ev'ry face!
With ears erect the courser



Hills, vales, and hollow rocks, with chearing cries resound.
• Drive down the precipice, brave youths ! with speed;
• Bound o’er the river banks, and smoke along the mead !!
But whither would the devious Muse pursue
The pleasing thene, and my past joys renew?
Another labour now demands thy fong.-
Stretch'd in two ranks, behold th'expecting throng,
As Nimrod pois'd the sphere. His arm he drew
Back like an arrow in the Parthian yew,
Then launch'd the whirling globe, and full as swift it flew :
Bowls dash'd on bowls confounded all the plain ;
Safe stood the foe, weil-cover'd by his train.
Assaulted tyrants thus their guard defends,
Escaping by the ruin of their friends,


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But now he stands expos’d, their order broke,
And seems to dread the next decisive stroke.
So at some bloody siege, the pond'rous hall
Batters with ceaseless rage the crumbling wall,
(A breach once made ;) soon galls the naked town,
Riots in blood, and heaps on heaps are thrown.

Each avenue thus clear’d, with aching heart
Griper beheld, exerting all his art ;
Once more resolves to check his furious foe,
Block up the passage, and elude the blow.
With cautious hand, and with less force, he threw
The well-pois'd sphere, that gently circling flew;
But stopping short, cover'd the mark from view.
So little Teucer, on the well-fought field,
Securely sculk'd behind his brother's field,

Nimrod, in dangers bold, whole heart elate
Nor courted Fortune's smiles nor fear'd her hate,
Perplex'd, but not discourag'd, walk'd around,
With curious eye examin'd all the ground;
Not the least op'ning in the front was found.
Sideway he leans, declining to the right,
And marks his way, and moderates his might.
Smooth gliding o'er the plain th' obedient sphere
Held on it's dubious road, while hope and fear
Alternate ebb’d and flow'd in ev'ry breast:
Now rolling nearer to the mark it press’d ;
Then chang'd it's course, by the strong bias rein'd,
And on the foe discharg'd the force that yet remain'd.
Smart was the stroke ; away the rival fled :
The bold intruder triumph'd in his stead.

Victorious Nimrod feiz'd the glitt'ring prize;
Shouts of outrageous joy invade the skies :
Hands, tongues, and caps, exalt the vietor's fame;
Sabrina's banks return him loud acclaim.






POETS may boast

, as fafely vain,

Their works shall with the world remain ::
Both bound together, live or die;
The verses, and the prophesy.

But who can hope his line should long
Laft in a daily-changing tongue ?
While they are new, envy prevails ;
And as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we use ill-chosen stone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets that lasting marble seek,
Must carve in Latin or in Greek.
We write in fand : our language grows ;
And, like the tide, our work o'erflows.

Chaucer his sense can only boast,
The glory of his numbers loft :
Years have defac'd his matchless strain;
And yet he did not fing in vain.

The beauties which adorn'd that age,
The shining subjects of his rage,
Hoping they should immortal prove,
Rewarded with success his love.


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Ipsa varietate tentamus efficere ut alia aliis ; quædam fortaffe omnibus placeant.



S when some skilful cook, to please each guest,

Would in one mixture comprehend a fealt,
With due proportion and judicious care,
He fills his dish with diff'rent forts of fare

Fishes and fowls deliciously unite,
To feast at once the taste, the smell, and fight :
So, Bernard ! must a Miscellany be,
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The Muses olio, which all tastes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.

Wouldst thou for miscellanies raise thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Muses in the piece conspire:
The Lyrick Bard must strike th' harmonious lyre ;
Heroick strains must here and there be found,
And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound.


Let Elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill some


with melodious woe:
Let not your am'rous songs too num'rous prove,
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love.
Satire mult interfere, whose pointed rage
May lash the madness of a vicious age :
Satire, the Muse that never fails to hit ;
For if there's scandal, to be sure there's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindarick lays ;
Those swell the piece, but very rarely please :
Let short-breath'd Epigram it's force confine,
And strike at follies in a single line.
Translations should throughout the work be sown,
And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own :
Horace in useful numbers should be sung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue.
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain :
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the liftning ear with tales of love.
Let ev'ry classick in the volume shine,
And each contribute to thy great design :
Thro' various subjects let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change.
Variety's the source of joy below,
From whence ftill fresh-revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.

Where Buckingham will condescend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live :
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little loves rejoice, and clap their wings-

Anacreon lives ! they cry; th' harmonious swain • Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain : • 'Tis hemour loft Anacreon lives again !

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