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Pleas'd while with smiles his happy lines you view,
And finds a fairer Rambouillet in you.
The brightest eyes of France inspir’d his Muse;
The brightest eyes of Britain now peruse ;
And dead, as living, 'tis our author's pride,
Still to charm those who charm the world belide. 20

To the same, on her leaving the Town after

the Coronation, 1715.
As some fond virgin, whom her mother's care

Drags from the Town to wholesome country air, Just when the learns to roll a melting eye, And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh, From the dear man unwilling the muit fever, 5 Yet takes one kiss before the parts for ever ; Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew, Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew; Not that their pleasures caus'd her discontent ; She sigh'd not that they stay’d, but that she went.

She went to plain work, and to purling brooks, Old-fashion'd halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks: She went from opera, park, assembly, play, To morning walks, and pray’rs three hours a day; To part her time 'twixt reading and bonea, To muse, and spill her solitary tea, Or o'er cold coffee trifle with the spoon, Count the flow clock, and dine exact at noon; Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire, Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire ; Up to her godly garret after fev'n, There starve and pray, for that's the way to heav'n.

Some squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack, Whose game is Whist, whose treat a toast in fack; Who visits with a gun, presents you birds, 25 Then gives a smacking huss, and cries-no words ! Or with his hounds comes hallooing from the stable, Makes loves with nods, and knees beneath a table; Whose laughs are hearty, tho' his jests are coarse, And loves you best of all things--but his horse.






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In some fair ev’ning, on your elbow laid,
You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;
In'pensive thought recall the fancy'd scene,
See coronations rise on ev'ry green:
Before you pass th’imaginary fights

Of lords, and earls, and dukes, and garter'd knights,
While the spread fan o’ershades your closing eyes,
Then give one flirt, and all the vifion flies.
Thus vanish sceptres, coronets and balls,
And leave you in love woods or empty walls !

So when your slave, at some dear idle time,
(Not plagu'd with headachs or the want of rhyme,)
Stands in the streets abstracted from the crew,
And while he seems to study, thinks of you;
Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,
Or sees the blush of loft Parthenia rise,
Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanquish quite,
Streets, chairs, and coxcombs, rush upon my fight:
Vext to be still in Town I knit my brow,
Look four, and hum a tune, as you may now.

To Mr. John Moore, Author of the celebrated

How much, egregious Moore ! are we

Deceiv'd by thews and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we see,
All humankind are worms.
Man is a very worm by birth,

Vile reptile, weak, and vain !
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.
That woman is a worm we find,
E’er since our grandam's evil;
She first convers’d with her own kind,
That ancient worin the devil.
The learn'd themselves we Book-worms name,
The blockhead is a Slow-worm;
The nymph whose tail is alion flame,

15 Is aptly term'd a Glow-worin.

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The fops are painted butterflies,
That flutter for a day;
First from a worm they take their rise,
And in a worm decay.
The flatterer an ear-wig grows;
Thus worms suit all conditions ;
Misers are muck-worms, filk-worms beaus,
And death-watches physicians.


That statesmen have the worm, is seen
By all their winding play;
Their conscience is a worm within,
That gnaws them night and day.
Ah, Moore ! thy skill were well employ'd,
And greater gain would rise,
If thou could it make the courtier void
The worm that never dies!


O learned friend of Abchurch-lane,
Who sett'st our entrails free;
Vain is thy art, thy powder vain,
Since worms shall eat e'en thee.


Our fate thou only canst adjourn
Some few short years, no more!
E’en Button's wits to worms shall turn,
Who maggots were before.


To Mrs. M. B. on her Birth-day. OH! be thou bless’d with all that Heav'n can send,

Long health, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend; Not with those toys the female world admire, Riches that vex, and vanities that tire. With added years, if life bring nothing new, 5 But like a sieve let ev'ry blessing thro', Some joys still loft, as each vain year runs o’er, And all we gain some sad reflection more:


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Is that a birth-day? "tis, alas ! too clear,
'Tis but the fun'ral of the former year.

Let joy or ease, let affluence or content,
And the gay conscience of a life well spent,
Calm ev'ry thought, inspirit ev'ry grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year, 15
Without a pain, a trouble, or a fear,
Till death, unfelt, that tender frame destroy,
In some foft dream, or ecstacy of joy,
Peaceful sleep out the labbath of the tomb,
And wake to raptures in a life to come.

To Mr. Thomas Southern, on his Birth-day, 1742.
ESIGN’D to live, prepar’d to die,

With not one fin but poetry,
This day Tom's fair account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays

A table with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet singers,
Presents her harp till to his fingers.
The feast his tow‘ring genius marks
In yonder wild-goose and the larks!
The mushrooms shew his wit was sudden!
And for his judgment, lo, a pudden !
Roast beef, tho' cold, proclaims him stout,
And grace, altho' a bard devout.
May Tom, whom Heav'n sent down to raise

The price of prologues and of plays,
Be ev'ry birth-day more a winner,
Digest his thirty-thousandth dinner;
Walk to his grave without proach,
And scorn a ralical and a coach.





THE Basset-table spread, the tallier come,

Why itays Sinilinda in the dressing-room ?
Rise, ensive mph! the tallier waits for you. 7

Smil. Ah, Madam! since my Sharper is untrue,
I joyless make my once adord Alpheu.
I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair,

2 And whilper with that soft deluding air, And those feign'd fighs which cheat the lift'ving fair.

Card. Is this the cause of your romantic Itrains ? A mightier grief my heavy heart suitains; As you by love, so I by fortune croit ; One, one bad deal three Septlevas have lost.

Smil. Is that the griefwhich you compare with mine? With ease the fimiles of Fortune I resign: Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone, Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.

Card. A lover loit is but a common care,
And prudent nymphs againit that change prepare :
The knave of clubs thrice loft; oh! who could guess
This fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress?

Smil. See Betty Lovet! very à propos,
Slie all the cares of love and play does know :
Dear Betty Mall th' important point decide;
Betty! who cft' the pain of each has try'd ;
Impartial, she shall say who suffers most,

25 By cards’ill usage, or by lovers loft.

Lov. Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay, Tho'time is precious, and I want some tea.

Card. Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought, With fifiy guineas (a great penn'worth) bought. See on the toothpick Mars and Cupid Itrive, And both the tiruggling figures seem alive.





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