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Penevolence ber conversation guides,
Religion's chearful fiume lier boem warms,
From her form all your chara&ters of life,
from his Grandfire he shall learn to reign.
Thus far I'd gone : Propitious rifing gales
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,
Another told me, if I wish'd success,
You have, 'tis true, the noble Patron Town,
Still every one I met in this agreed,
The pomp of titles easy faith might shake,
Again, while GEORGE's virtues rais'd my thought, The following lines prophetick fancy wrought.
Methinks I fee fome Bard, whose heavenly rage
From the firft George the godlike kings descend,
Here paus’d the fullen Muse, in haste I dress'u,
E PIST LE II.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE
EARL OF BURLINGTON,
A Journey to Exeter.
Or in your Chiswick bow'rs enjoy your friend;
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 o'er wide shrubby heaths, and furrow'd lanes,
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.