This languishes, this ftruts to show his mien,
And not a gold-clock'd stocking moves unseen.

But hark! the full Orchestra ftrike the strings; The Hero ftruts, and the whole audience fings.

My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarfe and confus'd, like Babel's mingled found.
Hard chance had plac'd me near a noisy throat,
That in rough quavers bellow'd ev'ry note.
Pray Sir, fays I, fufpend a-while your fong,

The Opera's drown'd; your lungs are wondrous strong;
I wish to hear your Roland's ranting strain,
While he with rooted forests ftrows the plain.

Sudden he shrugs furprize, and answers quick,
Monfieur apparement n'aime pas la mufique.

Then turning round, he join'd th' ungrateful noise ;
And the loud Chorus thunder'd with his voice.

O footh me with fome foft Italian air,

Let harmony compofe my tortur'd ear!
When Anaftafia's voice commands the strain,
The melting warble thrills through ev'ry vein;

Thought ftands fufpenfe, and filence pleas'd attends,
While in her notes the heav'nly Choir descends.

But you'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleas'd and content with nothing but my own,
So ftrongly with this prejudice poffeft,

He thinks French mufick and French painting best.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some scraping fidler of their Ball he quotes;
Talk of the fpirit Raphael's pencil gives,

Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives;
Yes Sir, fays he, in colour and defign,
Rigaut and Raphael are extremely fine!

'Tis true his country's love tranfports his breaft With warmer zeal, than your old Greeks profest. Ulyffes lov'd his Ithaca of yore,

Yet that fage trav'ller left his native fhore;
What ftronger vertue in the Frenchman fhines!
He to dear Paris all his life confines.

I'm not fo fond. There are, I must confefs,

Things which might make me love my country lefs.
I should not think my Britain had such charms,

If loft to learning, if enflav'd by arms;

France

France has her Richlicus and her Colberts known,
And then, I grant it, France in fcience fhone ;
We too, I own, without fuch aids may chance
In ignorance and pride to rival France.

But let me not forget Corneille, Racine, Boileau's strong fense and Moliere's hum'rous Scene. Let Cambray's name be fung above the reft, Whose maxims, Pult'ney, warm thy patriot breast; In Mentor's precepts wisdom strong and clear Dictates fublime, and diftant nations hear. Hear all ye Princes, who the world controul, What cares, what terrors haunt the tyrant's soul ; His conftant train are anger, fear, distrust, To be a King, is to be good and just; His people he protects, their rights he faves, And fcorns to rule a wretched race of flaves,

Happy, thrice happy fhall the monarch reign, Where guardian laws defpotic power restrain! There shall the plough-share break the stubborn land, And bending harvests tire the peasant's hand: There liberty her fettled manfion boasts,

There commerce plenty brings from foreign coasts.

O Britain, guard thy laws, thy rights defend,
So fhall these bleffings to thy fons defcend!

You'll think 'tis time fome other theme to chufe,
And not with Beaus and Fops fatigue the Mufe!
Should I let Satyr loofe on English ground,
There fools of various character abound;
But here my verfe is to one race confin'd,
All Frenchmen are of Petit-maitre kind.

EPISTLE

EPISTLE IV.

To the Right Honourable

PAUL METHUEN Efq;

T

HAT, 'tis encouragement makes Science

fpread,

Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often faid;
When learning droops and fickens in the

land,

What Patron's found to lend a faving hand?
True gen'rous Spirits profp'rous vice detest,
And love to cherish vertue when diftreft: