What tho' to love and foft delights a foe, By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet focial freedom, long to courts unknown, Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, And let me taste thee unexercis'd by kings.
[SWIFT.]
Ex fumo dare lucem.
Box! bring an ounce of FREEMAN's best,
And bid the vicar be my guest:
Let all be plac'd in order due,
A pot wherein to fpit or fpue,
And London Journal, and Free Briton, Of ufe to light a pipe, or
This village, unmolefted yet By troopers, fhall be my retreat: Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray; Who cannot write or vote for *. Far from the vermin of the town, Here let me rather live, my own, Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland In fweet oblivion lulls the land;
Of all which at Vienna paffes,
As ignorant as * Brafs is: And scorning rascals to caress,
Extol the days of good Queen BESS, When firft TOBACCO bleft our isle, Then think of other Queens-and smile.
Come jovial pipe, and bring along Midnight revelry and fong; The merry catch, the madrigal, That echoes sweet in City Hall;
The parfon's pun, the smutty tale Of country justice o'er his ale. I ask not what the French are doing, Or Spain to compafs Britain's ruin:
Britons, if undone, can go
Where TOBACCO loves to grow.
WRITTEN IN LORD WESTMORLAND'S
NË gay attire, ne marble hall, Ne arched roof, ne pictur❜d wall;
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board, Bestow'd with pyes' of perigord;
power, ne fuch like idle fancies; Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis. Let me ne more myself deceive; Ne more regret the toys I leave, The world I quit, the proud, the vain, Corruption's and Ambition's train;
But not the good, perdie, nor fair, 'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r; But fuch aye welcome to my cell, And oft, not always, with me dwell. Then caft, fweet faint, a circle round, And blefs from fools this holy ground; From all the foes to worth and truth, From wanton old, and homely youth,
* Born 1706; dyed 1756.
The gravely dull, and pertly gay, Oh banish these; and, by my fay, Right well I ween that, in this age, Mine house shall prove an hermitage.
AN INSCRIPTION ON THE CELL.
BENEATH thefe mofs-grown roots, this ruftick cell,
Truth, Liberty, Content, fequefter'd dwell; Say you, who dare our hermitage difdain, What drawing-room can boast so fair a train?
AN INSCRIPTION IN THE CELL.
EET bird, that fing'ft on yonder spray,
Purfue unharm'd thy fylvan lay;
While I, beneath this breezy fhade,
In peace repofe my careless head; And joining thy enraptur'd fong, Inftruct the world-enamour'd throng, That the contented harmless breaft In folitude itself is bleft.
BY GEORGE LORD LYTTELTON.
ADE to engage all hearts, and charm all eyes;
Though meek, magnanimous; though witty, wise; Polite, as all her life in courts had been;
Yet good, as fhe the world had never seen ; The noble fire of an exalted mind,
With gentle female tenderness combin'd. Her speech was the melodious voice of Love, Her fong the warbling of the vernal grove; Her eloquence was sweeter than her fong, Soft as her heart, and as her reason ftrong; Her form each beauty of her mind express'd, Her mind was Virtue by the Graces drefs'd.
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