game.

Poachers fhall tremble at his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd
Affift me, Bacchus, and ye drunken Pow'rs,
To fing his friendships and his midnight hours!
Why doft thou glory in thy ftrength of beer,
Firm-cork'd, and mellow'd till the twentieth year;
Brew'd or when Phabus warms the fleecy fign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio fhine.
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have sprung!
It arms with curfes dire the wrathful tongue;
Foul fcandal to the lying lip affords,

And prompts the mem'ry with injurious words.
O where is wisdom, when by this o'erpower'd ?
The ftate is cenfur'd, and the maid deflower'd!
And wilt thou ftill, O Squire, brew ale fo ftrong?
Hear then the dictates of prophetic fong.

Methinks I fee him in his hall appear,
Where the long table floats in clammy beer,
'Midft mugs and glasses shatter'd o'er the floor,
Dead-drunk his fervile crew fupinely fnore;
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,

THE

THE

Since Lydia knew the bloffom of fifteen ;
No lovers now her morning hours moleft,
And catch her at her Toilette half undreft;
The thund'ring knocker wakes the street no more,
No chairs, no coaches crowd her filent door;
Her midnights once at cards and Hazard fled,
Which now, alas! fhe dreams away in bed.
Around her wait Shocks, monkeys and mockaws,
To fill the place of Fops, and perjur'd Beaus ;
In these she views the mimickry of man,
And fmiles when grinning Pug gallants her fan;
When Poll repeats, the founds deceive her ear,
For founds, like his, once told her Damon's care.
With these alone her tedious mornings pafs;
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 fhe fixes ev'ry grace,

That not a blush can discompose her face,

Reclin'd

Reclin'd upon

her arm she penfive fate,
And curs'd th' inconftancy of youth too late.
O Youth! O fpring 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 mifpell'd record a lover's flame:
Nor fhall fide-boxes watch my restless eyes,
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! fuch conquefts 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 fenfe.

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 fhall I wear the morn away ?

Who there frequents at thefe unmodifh hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizled tow'rs,
And gray religious maids? my presence there
Amid that fober 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 drefs, and take my wonted range Through ev'ry Indian shop, through all the Change; Where the tall jar erects his coftly pride,

With antick shapes in China's azure dy'd ;

There

There careless lies the rich brocade unroll'd,
Here fhines a cabinet with burnish'd gold;
But then remembrance will my grief renew,
'Twas there the raffling dice falfe Damon threw ;
The raffling dice to him decide the prize.
'Twas there he first convers'd with Chloe's eyes ;
Hence fprung th' ill-fated caufe of all my fmart,
To me the toy he gave, to her his heart.
But foon 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 prifon 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 curft! (unhappy and forlorn)
With perjury, with love, and rival's fcorn!
Falfe are the loofe Coquet's inveigling airs,
Falfe is the pompous grief of youthful heirs,
False is the cringing courtier's plighted word,
Falfe are the dice when gamesters ftamp the board,
False is the sprightly widow's publick tear ;
Yet these to Damon's oaths are all fincere.

Fly from perfidious man, the fex difdain;
Let fervile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modish life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.

He games; he fwears; he drinks; he fights; he roves ;
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.

Miftrefs and wife can well fupply his need,
A mifs for pleasure, and a wife for breed.
But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can perhaps an injur'd bed repay;

Perhaps

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 fullen humours she can bear.

Why are these fobs ? and why these streaming eyes?
Is love the caufe? no, I the fex despise;
I hate, I loath his base perfidious name.
Yet if he should but feign a rival flame?
But Chloe boafts and triumphs in my pains,
To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns.

Thus love-fick Lydia rav'd. Her maid appears;
A band-box in her steady hand she bears.
How well this riband's glofs becomes your face!
She cries, in raptures; then, fo fweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! fo bright! fo fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-drefs owes its air.
Straight Lydia fmil'd; the comb adjufts her locks,
And at the Play-house Harry keeps her box.

THE