Benevolence her converfation guides,
Smiles on her cheek, and in her eye refides.
Such harmony upon her tongue is found,
As Joftens English to Italian jound :
Yet in thofe founds fuch fentiments appear,
As charm the Judgment, while they footh the ear.
Religion's chearful flame her bofem "warms,
Calms all her hours, and brightens all her charms.
Henceforth, ye Fair, at chapel mind your pray'rs,
Nor catch your lover's eyes with artful airs;
Reftrain your looks, kneel more, and whisper lefs,
Nor most devoutly criticife on drefs.

From her form all your characters of life,
The tender mother, and the faithful wife.
Oft have I feen her little infant train,
The lovely promife of a future reign;
Obferv'd with pleasure every dawning grace,
And all the mother opening in their face;
The fon fhall add new honours to the line,
And early with paternal virtues shine;
When be the tale of Audenard repeats,
His little heart with emulation beats;
With conquefts yet to come his bofom glows,
He dreams of triumphs and of vanquifh'i focs.
Each year with arts fall fore his ripening brain,
And from his Grandfire he shall learn to reign.
Thus far I'd gone: Propitious rifing gales
Now bid the failor hoift the fwelling fails:
Fair Carolina lands; the cannons roar,
White Albion's cliffs refound from fhore to fhore.
Behold the bright original appear,

All praise is faint when Carolina's near.

Thus to the nation's joy, but Poet's coft,
The Princefs came, and my new plan was loft.

Since all my schemes were baulk'd, my last refort, I left the Mufes to frequent the Court;

Fenfive each night, from room to room I walk'd,
To one I bow'd, and with another talk'd;
Enquir'd what news, or fuch a Lady's name,
And did the next day, and the next, the fame.
Hlaces, I found, were daily given away,
And yet no friendly Gazette mention'd Gay.
I afk'd a friend what method to purfue;
He cry'd, I want a place as well as you.
Another ask'd me, why I had not writ;
A Poet owes his fortune to his wit.

Straight I reply'd, With what a courtly grace,
Flows eafy verfe from him that has a place!
Had Virgil ne'er at court improv'd his ftrains,
He ftill had fung of flocks and homely fwains;
And had not Horace fweet preferment found,
The Roman lyre had never learnt to found.

Once Ladies fair in homely guife I fung,
And with their names wild woods and mountains rung.
Oh teach me now to ftrike a fofter ftrain!
The Court refines the language of the plain.

You must, cries one, the Miniftry rehearse,
And with each Patriot's name prolong your verfe.
But fure this truth to Poets fhould be known,
That praifing all alike, is praifing none.
Another told me, if I wish'd fuccefs,
To fome distinguish'd Lord I must addrefs;
One whofe high virtues fpeak his noble blood,
One always zealous for his country's good;
Where valour and ftrong eloquence unite,
In council cautious, refolute in fight;
Whofe gen'rous temper prompts him to defend,
And patronize the man that wants a friend.

You

You have, 'tis true, the noble Patron shown,
But I, alas! am to Argyle unknown.

Still every one I met in this agreed,
That writing was my method to fucceed;
But now preferments fo poffefs'd my brain,
That scarce I could produce a fingle strain :
Indeed I fometimes hammer'd out a line,
Without connection as without defign.
One morn upon the Princefs, this I writ,
An Epigram that boasts more truth than wit:
The pomp of titles eafy faith might shake,
She fcorn'd an empire for religion's fake :
For this, on earth the British crown is giv'n,
And an immortal crown decreed in heav'n.

Again, while GEORGE's virtues rais'd my thought,
The following lines prophetick fancy wrought.
Methinks I fee fome Bard, whofe heavenly rage
Shall rife in fong, and warm a future age;
Look back through time, and, rapt in avonder, trace
The glorious feries of the Brunfwick race,

From the firft George the godlike kings defcend,
A line which only with the world shall end.
The next a gen'rous Prince renown'd in arms,
And blefs'd, long bless'd in Carolina's charms ;
From thefe the rest. 'Tis thus fecure in peace,
We plow the fields, and reap the year's increase:
Now Commerce, wealthy Goddess, rears her head,
And bids Britannia's fleets their canvas spread;
Unnumber'd fips the peopled ocean hide,
And wealth returns with each revolving tide.

Here paus'd the fullen Mufe, in haste I dress'd, And through the crowd of needy courtiers prefs'd; Though unfuccessful, happy whilft I fee,

Thofe eyes that glad a nation, shine on me.

EPIST LE II.

X

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE

EARL OF BURLINGTON.

WHILE

A Journey to EXETER.

HILE you, my Lord, bid ftately piles afcend, Or in your Chiswick bow'rs enjoy your friend; Where Pope unloads the boughs within his reach, The purple vine, blue plumb, and blushing peach; I journey far-You knew fat Bards might tire, And, mounted, fent me forth your trufty Squire. 'Twas on the day when city dames repair To take their weekly dofe of Hide-Park air ; When forth we trot: no carts the road infeft, For ftill on Sundays country horses reft. Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen; Through Hammersmith jog on to Turnham-green: That Turnham-green 'which dainty pigeons fed, But feeds no more: for* Solomon is dead. Three dufty miles reach Brentford's tedious town, For dirty streets, and white-legg'd chickens known:

* A man lately famous for feeding pigeons at Turnham-green.

Thence

Thence o'er wide fhrubby heaths, and furrow'd lanes,
We come, where Thames divides the meads of Stanes.
We ferry'd o'er; for late the winter's flood

Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood.
Prepar'd for war, now Bagfoot-Heath we crofs,
Where broken gamefters oft repair their lofs.
At Hartley-row the foaming bit we pret,
While the fat landlord welcom'd ev'ry gueft.
Supper was ended, healths the glaffes crown'd,
Our hoft extoll'd his wine at ev'ry round,
Relates the Juftices late meeting there,

How many bottles drank, and what their cheer;
What Lords had been his gues in days of yore,
And prais'd their wifdom much, their drinking more.
Let travellers the morning vigils keep:

The morning rofe, but we lay fast asleep.
Twelve tedious miles we bore the fultry fun,
And Popham-Lane was scarce in fight by one:
The ftraggling village harbour'd thieves of old,
Twas here the flage-coach'd lafs refign'd her gold;
That gold which had in London purchas'd gowns,
And fent her home a Belle to country towns.
But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood :
Here unown'd infants find their daily food;

For fhould the maiden mother nurse her fon,
'Twould spoil her match when her good name is gone.
Our jolly hoftefs nineteen children bore,

Nor fail'd her breaft to fuckle nineteen more.
Bejuft, ye Prudes, wipe off the long arrear;
Be virgins fill in town, but mothers here.

Sutton we pafs, and leave her fpacious down,
And with the setting fun reach Stockbridge town.
O'er our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides,
And the red dainty trout our knife divides.