Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh, That calls the darling from thy tender eye;
How fhall his fpirit brook the rigid rules,
And the long tyranny of grammar-schools?
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod,
Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod;
No, let him never feel that smart disgrace :
Why should he wifer prove than all his race?
When ripening youth with down o'erfhades his chin,
And every female eye incites to fin;
The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame)
With fmacking lip shall raise his guilty flame;
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove,
Shall oft' be confcious of their ftolen love.
But think, Prifcilla, on that dreadful time,
When pangs and watery qualms fhall own thy crime.
How wilt thou tremble when thy nipple 's preft,
To fee the white drops bathe thy fwelling breaft!
Nine moons shall publickly divulge thy fhame,
And the young Squire foreftall a father's name.
When twice twelve times the reaper's fweeping hand
With level'd harvests has beftrown the land;
On fam'd St. Hubert's feaft, his winding horn
Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the morn:
This memorable day his eager speed
Shall urge with bloody heel the rising steed.
O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate!
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries,
Low in the duft his groveling honour lies,
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone.
O venturous youth, thy thirst of game allay :
May'ft thou furvive the perils of this day!
He shall furvive; and in late years be sent
To fnore away Debates in Parliament.
The time fhall come, when his more folid fenfe
With nod important shall the laws dispense;
A Juftice with grave Juftices fhall fit;
He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit,
No greyhound fhall attend the tenant's pace,
No rufty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons fhall leave their covers void of fear,
Nor dread the thievish net or triple spear;
Poachers fhall tremble at his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd game.
Affift me, Bacchus, and ye drunken powers,
To fing his friendships and his midnight hours!
Why doft thou glory in thy strength of beer,
Firm-cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year;
Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy fign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine?
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have sprung!
It arms with curfes dire the wrathful tongue;
Foul fcandal to the lying lip affords,
And prompts the memory with injurious words.
O where is wisdom when by this o'erpower'd?
The state is cenfur'd, and the maid deflower'd !
And wilt thou still, O Squire, brew ale fo strong?
Hear then the dictates of prophetic fong.
Methinks I fee him in his hall appear,
Where the long table floats in clammy beer,
'Midft mugs and glaffes fhatter'd o'er the floor,
Dead drunk, his fervile crew fupinely fnore;
Triumphant, o'er the proftrate brutes he stands,
The mighty bumper trembles in his hands;
Boldly he drinks, and, like his glorious Sires,
In copious gulps of potent ale expires.
NOW twenty fprings had cloath'd the park with green,
Since Lydia knew the bloffom of fifteen ;
No lovers now her morning hours moleft,
And catch her at her toilette half-undreft;
The thundering knocker wakes the street no more,
No chairs, no coaches, croud her filent door;
Her midnights once at cards and hazard fled,
Which now, alas! fhe dreams away in bed.
Around her wait Shocks, monkeys, and mockaws,
To fill the place of fops and perjur'd beaux ;
In these she views the mimickry of man,
And smiles when grinning Pug gallants her fan;
When Poll repeats, the founds deceive her ear
(For founds like his once told her Damon's care);
With these alone her tedious mornings pass;
Or, at the dumb devotion of her glass,
She smooths her brow, and frizzles forth her hairs,
And fancies youthful drefs gives youthful airs;
With crimson wool fhe fixes every grace,
That not a blush can difcompofe her face.
Reclin'd upon her arm, the penfive fate,
And curs'd th' inconftancy of youth too late.
O Youth! O fpring of life! for ever loft!
No more my name fhall reign the favourite toaft;
On glafs no more the diamond grave my name,
And rhymes mifpelt record a lover's flame :
Nor fhall fide-boxes watch my reftlefs eyes,
And, as they catch the glance, in rows arise
With humble bows; nor white-lov'd beaux encroach
In crouds behind, to guard me to my coach.
Ah, haplefs nymph! fuch conquefts are no more;
For Chloe's now what Lydia was before!
'Tis true, this Chloe boasts the peach's bloom.
But does her neer whisper breathe perfume?
I own, her taper shape is form'd to please.
Yet if you faw her unconfin'd by stays!
She doubly to fifteen may make pretence;
Alike we read it in her face and fenfe.
Her reputation! but that never yet
Could check the freedoms of a young coquette.
Why will ye then, vain fops, her eyes believe?
Her eyes can, like your perjur'd tongues, deceive.
What fhall I do? how fpend the hateful day?
At chapel fhall I wear the morn away?
Who there frequents at these unmodifh hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizzled towers,
And gray religious maids? My presence there
Amid that fober train would own despair;
Nor am I yet fo old; nor is my glance
As yet fixt wholly to devotion's trance.
Straight then I'll drefs, and take my wonted range Through every Indian fhop through all the Change;
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