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That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
And all the thunder of the battle rise!
'T was then great Marlbro's mighty soul was proved,
Amidst confusion, horrour, and despair,
Examined all the dreadful scenes of war:
In peaceful thought the field of death surveyed,
To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD
THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY
Lords, knights, and squires, the num'rous band
Were summoned, by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
For while she makes her silk-worms beds
'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.
TO A LADY
SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME AND LEAVING ME IN
Spare, gen'rous victor, spare the slave
That more than triumph he might have
In the dispute whate'er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied,
You, far from danger as from fear,
But she, howe'er of vict'ry sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delayed, And, armed with more immediate pow'r, Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;
She drops her arms, to gain the field;
Secures her conquest by her flight,
And triumphs when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turned his steed
Moved in the orb, pleased with the chimes,
They tread on stars and talk with gods;
Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
Upon Euphelia's toilet lay,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
Fair Chloe blushed; Euphelia frowned;
I sung and gazed, I played and trembled;
Remarked how ill we all dissembled.
A BETTER ANSWER
Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face!
How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy;
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong;
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun,
If at morning o'er earth 't is his fancy to run,
So when I am wearied with wand'ring all day,
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war,
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree;
For thou art a girl as much brighter than her
A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING
The kennel edge, where wheels had worn the place.
The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep,
And brick-dust Moll had screamed through half a street. The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.
The watchful bailiffs take their silent stands,
And school-boys lag with satchels in their hands.