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Penevolence ber conversation guides,
Smiles on her cheek, and in her eye resides.
Such harmony upon her tongue is found,
As softens English to Italian jound:
Yet in those founds such sentiments appear,
As charm the Judgment, while they jooth ile ear.

Religion's chearful fiume lier boem warms,
Calms all her hours, and brightens all her charms,
Henceforth, ye Fair, at chapel mind your pray'rs,
Ner catch your lover's eyes with artful airs;
Restrain your looks, kneel more, and whilper leji,
Nor most devoutly criticise un dress.

From her form all your chara&ters of life,
The tender mother, and the faithful wife.
Oft have I seen her little infant train,
The lovely promise of a future reign ;
Obferu'd with pleasure every dawning grace,
And all the mother opening in their face ;
The fon mall add new honours to the line,
And early with paternal virtues fbine ;
When he the tale of Audenard repeats,
His little heart with emulation beats ;
With conquests yet to come his bofom glows,
He dreams of triumphs and of vanquish'd focs.
Each year with arts fhall store his ripening brain,
And

from his Grandfire he shall learn to reign.

Thus far I'd gone : Propitious rifing gales
Now bid the failor hoist the swelling fails:
Fair Carolina lands; the cannons roar,
White Albion's cliffs resound from shore to shore.
Behold the bright original appear,
All praise is faint when Carolina's near.
Thus to the nation's joy, but Poet's coft,
The Princess came, and my new plan was lost.

Since

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Since all my schemes were baulk’d, my last resort, I left the Mufes to frequent the Court; Tensive each night, from room to room I walk d, To one I bow'd, and with another talk'd; Enquir'd what news, or such a Lady's name, And did the next day, and the next, the fame. Haces, I found, were daily given away, And yet no friendly Gazette mention'd Gay. I ask'd a friend what method to pursue ; 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 verse from him that has a place ! Had Virgil ne'er at court improv'd his strains, He still had sung of flocks and honely swains; And had not Horace sweet preferment found, The Roman lyre had never learnt to found.

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

You mult, cries one, the Ministry rehearse,
And with each Patriot's name prolong your verse.
But sure this truth to Peets should be known,
That praising all alike, is praising none.

Another told me, if I wish'd success,
To some distinguish'd Lord I must address;
One whose high virtues speak his noble blood,
One always zealous for his country's good ;
Where valour and strong eloquence unite,
In council cautious, refolute in fight;
Whose gen’sous temper prompts him to defend,
And patronize the man that wants a friend.

You

You have, 'tis true, the noble Patron Town,
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 so poffefs'd my brain,
That scarce I could produce a single strain :
Indeed I fometimes hammer'd out a line,
Without connection as without design.
One morn upon the Princess, this I writ,
An Epigram that boasts more truth than wit:

The pomp of titles easy faith might shake,
She scorn'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, whose heavenly rage
Shall rise in song, and warm a future' age ;
Look back through time, and, rapt in avonder, trace
The glorious series of the Brunswick race,

From the firft George the godlike kings descend,
A line which only with the world mall end.
The next a gen'rous Prince renown'd in arms,
And blefi'd, long bless'd in Carolina's charms;
From these the rest. 'Tis thus fecure in peace,
We plow the fields, and reap the year's increase :
Norv Commerce, wealthy Goddess, rears her head,
And bids Britannia’s fleets their canvas /pread;
Unnumber'd frips the peopled gcean bide,
And wealth returns with each revolving tide.

Here paus’d the fullen Muse, in haste I dress'u,
And through the crowd of needy courtiers press’d;
Though unsuccessful, happy whilft I fee,
Those eyes that glad a nation, fine on me.

EPISTLE

в 4

E PIST LE II.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE

EARL OF BURLINGTON,

W

A Journey to Exeter.
HILE you, my Lord, bid stately 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 ;,

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 dose of Hid'e-Park air ; When forth we trot: no carts the road infest, For still on Sundays country horses rest. Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen ; Through Hammersmiih jog on to Turnham-green : That Turnbom-green 'which dainty pigeons fed, But feeds no more : for * Solomon is dead. Ihree dusty miles reach Brentford's tedious town, l'or dirty streets, and white-legg’d chickens known: A man lately famous for leeding pigeons at Turnham-green.

Thence

Thence o'er wide shrubby heaths, and furrow'd lanes,
We come, where Thames divides the meads of Stanes.
We ferry'd o'er ; for late the winter's food
Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood.
Prepar'd for war, now Bag fot-!!eath we cross,
Where broken gameters oft repair their loss.
At Hartley-row the foaming bit we preił,
While the fat landlord welcom'd ev'ry guest.
Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown'd,
Our host extoll'd his wine at ev'ry round,
Relates the Justices late meeting there,
How

many bottles drank, and what their cheer; What Lords had been his guers in days of yore, And prais’d their wisdom much, their drinking more.

Let travellers the morning vigils keep : The morning ro'e, 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 refigu'd her gold; That gold which had in London purchas'd gowns, And sent her home a Belle to country towns. But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood : Here unown’d infants find their daily food; For should the maiden mother nurse her son, 'Twould spoil her match when her good name is gone. Our jolly hoftess nineteen children bore, Nor fail'd her breast to fuckle nineteen more. Be juft, ye Prudes, wipe off the long arrear ; Be virgins flill in town, but mothers here.

Sut?c> we pafs, and leave her spacious down, And with the setting fun reach Stockbridge town. Oler our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides, And the red dainty trout our knife divides.

Sad

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