Thy copious preamble fo smoothly runs,
Taxes no more appear like legal duns:
Lords, Knights, and Squires, th' Affeffor's power obey
We read with pleasure, though with pain we pay.
Ah! why did Coningsby thy works defame!
That author's long harangue betrays his name.
After his speeches can his pen fucceed?
Though forc'd to hear, we're not oblig'd to read.,
Under what science shall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not poet born and bred.
Or doft thou boast th' Hiftorian's lafting pen,
Whofe annals are the acts of worthy men ?
No. Satire is thy talent; and each lafh
Makes the rich Mifer tremble o'er his cash.
What on the Drunkard can be more fevere,
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?
Ev'n Button's wits are nought, compar❜d to thee, Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his tea; While thou through Britain's diftant ifle fhalt spread, In every hundred and divifion read.
Critics in claffics oft' interpolate,
But every word of thine is fix'd as fate.
Some works come forth at morn, but die at night,
In blazing fringes round a tallow-light.
Some may perhaps to a whole week extend,
Like Steele (when unaffifted by a friend):
But thou shalt live a year, in spite of Fate;
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had fuch a wondrous power,
That with their verfes they could raise a tower:
But in thy profe a greater force is found
What poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by fowing dragons' teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vaft army from the poisonous feed.
Thy labours, Lownds, can greater wonders do
Thou raifeft armies, and canst pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen; thy annals cease;
Why need we armies when the land's in
peace ?
Soldiers are perfect devils in their way;
When once they're rais'd, they're curfed hard to lay
WITH SOME LAMPREYS.
WITH lovers 'twas of old the fashion
By prefents to convey their paffion;
No matter what the gift they fent,
The lady faw that love was meant.
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,
Took the boar's head her Hero gave
Nor could the briftly thing affront her;
'Twas a fit present from a hunter.
When fquires fend woodcocks to the dame,
It ferves to fhew their absent flame.
Some by a snip of woven hair,
In pofied lockets, bribe the fair.
How many mercenary matches
Have fprung from diamond-rings and watches
But hold a ring, a watch, a locket,
Would drain at once a poet's pocket;
He should fend fongs that coft him nought,
Nor ev'n be prodigal of thought.
Why then fend Lampreys? Fye, for fhame!
"Twill fet a virgin's blood on flame.
This to fifteen a proper gift!
It might lend fixty-five a lift.
I know your maiden aunt will fcold, And think my present fomewhat bold.
I fee her lift her hands and eyes:
"What! eat it, niece; eat Spanish flies!
Lamprey's a most immodest diet:
"You'll neither wake nor fleep in quiet.
"Should I to-night eat Sago-cream,
" "Twould make me blush to tell my dream:
"If I eat Lobster, 'tis fo warming,
"That every man I fee looks charming.
"Wherefore had not the filthy fellow
"Laid Rochester upon your pillow?
"I vow and fwear, I think the present
"Had been as modeft and as decent.
"Who has her virtue in her power?
"Each day has its unguarded hour;
"Always in danger of undoing,
"A prawn, a shrimp, may prove our ruin!
"The fhepherdefs, who lives on fallad,
"To cool her youth, controls her palate.
Should Dian's maids turn liquorifh livers,
"And of huge lampreys rob the rivers,
Then, all befide each glade and visto,
"You'd fee Nymphs lying like Calisto.
your blood, "Needs not himself fuch vicious food-"}
In this, I own, your aunt is clear,
I fent you what I well might fpare:
For, when I fee you (without joking),
Your eyes, lips, breafts, are fo provoking,
They set my heart more cock-a-hoop,
Than could whole feas of craw-fifh foup.
PASSION FOR OLD CHINA.
WHAT ecftafies her bofom fire!
How her eyes languish with defire !
How bleft, how happy, fhould I be,
Were that fond glance beftow'd on me!.
New doubts and fears within me war:
What rival's near? a china jar.
China's the paffion of her foul:
A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl,
Can kindle wishes in her breast,
Inflame with joy, or break her reft.
Some gems collect; fome medals prize,
And view the ruft with lovers' eyes;
Some court the stars at midnight hours;
Some doat on Nature's charms in flowers
But
every beauty I can trace
In Laura's mind, in Laura's face ;
My ftars are in this brighter sphere,
My lily and my rose is here.
Philofophers, more grave than wife,
Hunt fcience down in butterflies;
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