friend Sir Robert Brass.
None of these have mercy found:
I have laugh'd, and lash'd them round.
Have you feen a rocket fly?
You would fwear it pierc'd the fky :
It but reach'd the middle air,
Bursting into pieces there:
Thousand fparkles falling down
Light on many a coxcomb's crown:
See what mirth the fport creates ;
Singes hair, but breaks no pates.
Thus, fhould I attempt to climb,
Treat you in a style fublime,
Such a rocket is my Mufe:
Should I lofty numbers chufe,
Ere I reach'd Parnaffus' top,
I fhould burft, and bursting drop;
All my fire would fall in fcraps;
Give your head fome gentle raps;
Only make it smart a while :
Then could I forbear to fmile,
When I found the tingling pain
Entering warm your frigid brain
Make you able upon fight
To decide of wrong and right;
Talk with sense whate'er you please on ;
Learn to relish truth and reason ?
Thus we both fhall gain our prize :
I to laugh, and you grow wife.
A YOUNG LADY'S COMPLAINT,
The Stay of the DEAN in ENGLAND. 1726.
BLOW, ye Zephyrs, gentle gales;
Gently fill the fwelling fails.
Neptune, with thy trident long,
Trident three-fork'd, trident strong;
And ye Nereids fair and gay,
Fairer than the rofe in May,
Nereids living in deep caves,
Gently wash'd with gentle waves;
Nereids, Neptune, lull afleep
Ruffling ftorms, and ruffled deep;
All around, in pompous state,
On this richer Argo wait :
Argo, bring my Golden Fleece;
Argo, bring him to his Greece.
Will Cadenus longer stay?
Come, Cadenus, come away;
Come with all the hafte of love,
Come unto thy turtle-dove.
The ripen'd cherry on the tree
Hangs, and only hangs for thee;
Luscious peaches, mellow pears,
Ceres with her yellow ears,
And the grape, both red and white,
Grape infpiring just delight;
All are ripe, and courting sue
To be pluck'd and prefs'd by you.
Pinks have loft their blooming red,
Mourning hang their drooping head,
Every flower languid feems,
Wants the colour of thy beams,
Beams of wondrous force and power,
Beams reviving every flower.
Come, Cadenus, blefs once more,
Bless again thy native fhore;
Blefs again this drooping ifle,
Make its weeping beauties fmile,
Beauties that thine abfence mourn,,
Beauties wishing thy return.
Come, Cadenus, come with hafte,.
Come before the winter's blaft;
Swifter than the lightning fly;.
Or I, like Vanessa, die.
You will excufe me, I suppose,
For fending rhyme instead of profe,
Because hot weather makes me lazy;
To write in metre is more easy.
While you are trudging London town,,
I'm ftroling Dublin up and down;
While you converse with lords and dukes,
I have their betters here, my books:
Fix'd in an elbow-chair at eafe,
I chufe companions as I please.
I'd rather have one fingle shelf
Than all my friends, except yourfelf;
For, after all that can be faid,
-Our beft acquaintance are the dead.
While you 're in raptures with Fauftina";
I'm charm'd at home with our Sheelina.
While you are ftarving there in ftate,
I'm cramming here with butchers meat.
You fay, when with thofe lords you dine,
They treat you with the beft of wine,
Burgundy, Cyprus, and Tokay;
Why fo can we, as well as they.
No reafon then, my dear good Dean,
But you fhould travel home again.
What though you may n't in Ireland hope
To find fuch folk as Gay and Pope;
If you with rhymers here would fhare
But half the wit that you can'fpare,
I'd lay twelve eggs, that, in twelve days,
You'd make a dozen of Popes and Gays.
Our weather's good, our fky is clear, 'We 've every joy, if you were here; So lofty and fo bright a fky
Was never feen by Ireland's eye!
* Signora Fauftina, a famous Italian finger.
I think it fit to let you know,
This week I fhall to Quilca go;
To fee M Fayden's horney brothers,
First fuck, and after bull their mothers;
To fee, alas! my wither'd trees!
To fee what all the country fees!
My stunted quicks, my famish'd beeves,
My fervants fuch a pack of thieves;
My fhatter'd firs, my blafted oaks,
My house in common to all folks;
No cabbage for a fingle fnail,
My turnips, carrots, parsnips, fail;
My no green peas, my few green sprouts;
My mother always in the pouts ;
My horfes rid, or gone aftray;
My fish all ftol'n, or run away;
My mutton lean, my pullets old,
My poultry starv'd, the corn all fold.
A man, come now from Quilca, fays,
"They've ftol'n the locks from all your keys :"
But, what muft fret and vex me more,
He fays, "They ftole the keys before.
"They've ftolen the knives from all the forks ;
"And half the cows from half the fturks."
Nay more, the fellow fwears and vows,
've ftol'n the fturks from half the cows:"
*They is the grand thief of the county of Cavan ; for whatever is ftolen, if you enquire of a fervant about it, the answer is, "They have ftolen it." FAULKNER.
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