E thought you without titles great, And wealthy with a small eftate; While by your humble felf alone, You feem'd unrated and unknown. But now on fortune's fwelling tide High-borne, in all the pomp of pride; Of grandeur vain, and fond of pelf, 'Tis plain, my lord, you knew yourself.
EPIGRAM XIII.
Lovely fhines thy wedded fair,
Gentle as the yielding air
Cheering as the folar beam,
Soothing as the fountain-ftream.
Why then, jealous husband, rail?
All may breathe the ambient gale,
Bask in heaven's diffusive ray,
Drink the ftreams that pass away.
All may share unleff'ning joy,
When then jealous, peevish boy?
Water, air, and light confine,
Ere thou think'st her only thine.
OM thought a wild profufion great:
And therefore spent his whole estate :
Will thinks the wealthy are ador'd,
And gleans what mifers blush to hoard:
Their paffion, merit, fate the fame,
They thirst and starve alike for fame.
HY like a tyrant wilt thou reign,
When thou may'ft rule the willing mind?
Can the poor pride of giving pain
Repay the joys that wait the kind?
I curse my fond enduring heart,
Which fcorn'd prefumes not to be free,
Condemn'd to feel a double fmart,
To hate myself, and burn for thee.
EPIGRAM XVI.
VER bufy'd, ne'er employ'd,
Ever loving, ne'er enjoy'd,
Ever doom'd to feek and mifs,
pay unblefs'd the price of bliss.
EPIGRAM XVII.
Ainly hath heaven denounc'd the woman's woes,
Thou know'st no tender cares, no bitter throes, Unfelt your offspring comes, unfelt it goes.
The DANGER of Writing VERSE.
First printed in the Year 1741.
By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Efq;
Quæ poterant unquam fatis expurgare cicuta,
Ni melius dormire putem, quam fcribere verfus ?
OU ask me, fir, why thus by phantoms aw'd,
No kind occafion tempts the Mufe abroad?
Why, when retirement fooths this idle art,
To fame regardless sleeps the youthful heart?
'Twould wrong your judgment, fhould I fairly fay Diftruft or weakness caus'd the cold delay:
Hint the small diff'rence, 'till we touch the lyre,
'Twixt real genius and too ftrong defire
The human flips, or feeming flips pretend,
That rouze the critic, but escape the friend ;
Nay which, though dreadful when the foe pursues,
You pass, and smile, and still provoke the Muse.
Yet, spite of all you think, or kindly feign,
My hand will tremble while it grasps the pen.
For not in this, like other arts, we try
Our light excurfions in a fummer sky,
No cafual flights the dangerous trade admits,
But wits once authors, are for ever wits:
The fool in profe, like earth's unwieldy fon,
May oft rife vig❜rous, though he's oft o'erthrown;
One dangerous crifis marks our rise or fall,
By all we're courted, or we're fhunn'd by all.
Will it avail, that unmatur'd by years,
My eafy numbers pleas'd your partial ears,
If now condemn'd, my riper lays must bear
The wife man's cenfure, and the vain man's fneer?
Or, ftill more hard, ev'n where he's valu'd most,
The man muft fuffer if the poet's loft;
For wanting wit, be totally undone,
And barr'd all arts for having fail'd in one.
When fears like thefe his ferious thoughts engage,
No bugbear phantom curbs the poet's rage.
'Tis powerful reason holds the ftreighten'd rein,
While flutt'ring fancy to the diftant plain
Sends a long look, and spreads her wings in vain.
But grant for once, th' officious Mufe has fhed
Her gentleft influence on his infant head,
Let fears lie vanquish'd, and refounding Fame
Give to the bellowing blaft the poet's name.
And fee! diftinguifh'd from the crowd he moves,
Each finger marks him, and each eye approves !
Secure, as halcyons brooding o'er the deep,
The waves roll gently, and the thunders fleep,
Obfequious nature binds the tempeft's wings,
And pleas'd attention listens whilst he fings!
O blissful state, O more than human joy!
What shafts can reach him, or what cares annoy?
What cares, my friend? why all that man can know,
Opprefs'd with real or with fancy'd woe.
Rude to the world, like earth's first lord expell'd,
To climes unknown, from Eden's fafer field;
No more eternal springs around him breathe,
Black air fcowls o'er him, deadly damps beneath;
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