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Poachers shall tremble åt his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o’ertakes for murder'd game.
Aslift me, Bacchus, and ye drunken Pow'rs,
To fing his friendships and his midnight hours !
Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer,
Firm-cork'd, and mellow'd till the twentieth year;
Brew'd or when Phæbus warms the fleecy sign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine.
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have sprung!
It arms with curses dire the wrathful tongue;
Foul scandal to the lying lip affords,
And prompts the mem'ry with injurious words.
Owhere is wisdom, when by this o'erpower'd ?
'The state is censur'd, and the maid deflower'd!
And wilt thou still, O Squire, brew ale so strong?
Hear then the dictates of prophetic song.
Methinks I see him in his hall appear,
Where the long table floats in clammy beer,
'Midst mugs and glasses shatter'd o'er the floor,
Dead-drunk his fervile crew supinely snore ;
Triumphant, o'er the proftrate brutes he stands,
The mighty bumper trembles in his hands;
Boldly he drinks, and like his glorious Sires,
In copious gulps of potent ale expires,
TOI LE TT E. A TOWN ECLOGUE.
OW twenty springs had cloth'd the Park with
green, Since Lydia knew the blossom of fifteen ; No lovers now her morning hours molest, And catch her at her Toilette half undrest; The thund'ring knocker wakes the street no more, No chairs, no coaches crowd her filent door; Her midnights once at cards and Hazard Aled, Which now, alas ! she dreams away in bed. Around her wait Shocks, monkeys and mockaws, To fill the place of Fops, and perjur'd Beaus ; In these the views the mimickry of man, And smiles when grinning Pug gallants her fan; When Poll repeats, the sounds deceive her ear, For sounds, like his, once told her Damon's care. With these alone her tedious mornings pass; Or at the dumb devotion of her glass, She smooths her brow, and frizles forth her hairs, And fancies youthful dress gives youthful airs; With crimson wool she fixes ev'ry graće, That not a blush can discompose her face,
Reclin'd upon her arm she pensive fate,
And curs’à th'inconstancy of youth too late.
O Youth ! O spring of life! for ever loft !
No more my name shall reign the fav’rite Toast,
On glass no more the di’mond grave my name,
And rhymes mispell’d record a lover's fame :
Nor shall fide-boxes watch my
And as they catch the glance in rows arise
With humble bows ; nor white-glov'd Beaus encroach
In crowds behind, to guard me to my coach.
Ah hapless nymph! such conquests are no more,
For Chloe's now what Lydia was before !
'Tis true, this Chloe boasts the peach’s bloom,
But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume ?
I own her taper shape is form’d to please.
Yet if you saw her unconfin'd by stays !
She doubly to fifteen may make pretence,
Alike we read it in her face and fense.
Her reputation ! but that never yet
Could check the freedoms of a young Coquet.
Why will ye then, vain Fops, her eyes believe?
Her eyes can, like your perjur'd tongues, deceive.
What shall I do? how spend the hateful day?
At chapel shall I wear the morn away?
Who there frequents at these unmodish hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizled tow'rs,
And gray religious maids ? my presence there
Amid that sober train would own despair;
Nor am I yet fo old ; nor is my glance
As yet fixt wholly to devotion's trance.
Straight then I'll dress, and take my wonted range
Through ev'ry Indian shop, through all the Change;
Where the tall jar erects his costly pride,
With antick shapes in China's azure dy'd;
There careless lies the rich brocade unroll’d,
Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold ;
But then remembrance will my grief renew,
'Twas there the raffling dice false Damon threw;
The raffing dice to him decide the prize.
'Twas there he first convers’d with Chloe's eyes ;
Hence fprung th' ill-fated cause of all my smart,
To me the toy he gave, to her his heart.
But soon thy perj'ry in the gift was found,
The shiver'd China dropt upon the ground;
Sure omen that thy vows would faithless prove;
Frail was thy present, frailer is thy love
O happy Poll, in wiry prison pent;
Thou ne'er haft known what love or rivals meant ;
And Pug with pleasure can his fetters bear,
Who ne'er believ'd the vows that lovers fwear!
How am I curst! (unhappy and forlorn)
With perjury, with love, and rival's scorn!
False are the loose Coquet's inveigling airs,
False is the pompous grief of youthful heirs,
False is the cringing courtier's plighted word,
False are the dice when gamesters ftamp the board,
False is the sprightly widow's publick tear;
Yet these to Damon's oaths are all sincere.
Fly from perfidious man, the fex disdain ;
Let fervile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modiin life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.
He games; he swears; he drinks; he fights ; he roves;
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.
Mistrefs and wife can well supply his need,
A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breed.
But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can perhaps an injur'd bed repay ;
s. Perhaps her patient temper can behold The rival of her love adorn'd with gold. Powder'd with di'monds; free from thought and care, A husband's sullen humours she can bear.
Why are these fobs ? and why these streaming eyes? Is love the cause ? no, I the fex despise ; I hate, I loath his base perfidious name. Yet if he should but feign a rival flame ? But Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains, To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.
Thus love-fick Lydia ravid. : Her maid appears ; A band-box in her steady hand she bears. How well this riband's gloss becomes your face! She cries, in raptures; then, so sweet a lace ! How charmingly you look! so bright! fo fair! 'Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air. Straight Lydia (mild; the comb adjusts her locks, And at the Play-house Harry keeps her box,