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Then, full of wrath, she kick'd each lazy brute, Alas! I envied even that salute:

[say, 'Twas sure misplaced-Shock said, or seem'd to “ He had as lief I had the kick as they.'If she the mystic bellows take in hand, Who like the fair can that machine command ? 0, mayst thou ne'er by Æolus be seen, For he would sure demand thee for his queen! " But should the flame this rougher aid refuse, And only gentler medicines be of use, With full-blown cheeks she ends the doubtful

strife, Foments the infant flame, and puffs it into life.

Such arts as these exalt the drooping fire, But in my breast a fiercer flame inspire : I burn! I burn! 0, give thy puffing o'er, And swell thy cheeks and pout thy lips no more ! With all her haughty looks, the time I've seen When this proud damsel has more humble been; When with nice airs she hoist the pancake round, And dropp'd it, hapless fair! upon the ground. 'Look, with what charming grace, what winning

tricks The artful charmer rubs the candlesticks ! So bright she makes the candlesticks she handles, Oft have I said there were no need of candles."

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* But thou, my fair! who never wouldst approve,
Or hear the tender story of my love,
Or mind how burns my raging breast-a button-
Perhaps art dreaming of—a breast of mutton.'

VOL. V.

GG

Thus said, and wept the sad desponding swain,
Revealing to the sable walls his pain :
But nymphs are free with those they should deny,
To those they love more exquisitely coy.
Now chirping crickets raise their tinkling voice,
The lambent flames in languid streams arise,
And smoke in azure folds evaporates and dies.

SHENSTONE.

HAMLET'S SOLILOQUY.

IMITATED.

To print, or not to print—that is the question.
Whether 'tis better in a trunk to bury
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy,
Or send a well wrote copy to the press,
And, by disclosing, end them? To print, to doubt
No more; and by one act to say we end
The headach, and a thousand natural shocks
Of scribbling frenzy—'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To print-to beam
From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well bound:
To sleep, perchance, with Quarles-Ay, there's

the rub--
For to what class a writer may be doom'd,
When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff,
Must give us pause.—There's the respect that

makes The' unwilling poet keep his piece nine years. For who would bear the' impatient thirst of fame, The pride of conscious merit, and, 'bove all, The tedious importunity of friends,

When as himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? Who would fardles bear?
To groan and sweat under a load of wit?
But that the tread of steep Parnassus' hill,
That undiscover'd country, with whose bays
Few travellers return, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown
Than run the hazard to be known, and damn'd.
Thus Critics do make cowards of us all.
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is sicklied o'er with a pale manuscript;
And enterprisers of great fire and spirit,
With this regard, from Dodsley turn away,
And lose the name of authors.

JAGO.

THE DUKE OF BENEVENTO.

A Tale.

I HATE a prologue to a story
Worse than the tuning of a fiddle,

Squeaking and dinning :
Hang order and connexion,
I love to dash into the middle;

Exclusive of the fame and glory,
There is a comfort on reflection

To think you've done with the beginning.
And so, at supper one fine night,

Hearing a cry of ' Alla, Alla,
The prince was damnably confounded,

And in a fright;
But more so, when he saw himself surrounded
By fifty Turks, and at their head the fierce Abdalla.

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And then he look'd a little grave

To find himself become a slave,
And thought the Corsair rather in a hurry,

Out of all rules,
To make the Duke of Benevento 'curry

And take care of his mules :
But as 'twas vain to make a riot,

Without grimace,

Or a wry face, He gave a shrug, and rubb’d his mules in quiet.

Now 'twould have been great sport

To all the puppies of the court,
To view these changes and disasters;

But their enjoyments
Were damp'd by certain slovenly employments,

Not more amusing than their master's.

But who can paint his grief, Who can describe the transports of his sorrow,

When he beheld Almida's charms Conducted to Abdalla's arms,

And saw no prospect of relief: But that the blooming maid,

By cruel destiny betray'd, Must no more triumph in that name to-morrow?

Not understanding what he said,

Seeing him caper like an antic,
And tear his hair and beat his head,
The eunuch wisely judged him to be frantic.

But she, the lovely cause of all his care,
Darting a look to his enraptured soul,
Might soften e'en the madness of despair,
Bade him his weak unmanly rage control,

Each favouring opportunity improve; And bade him dare to hope, and bade him dare

to love.

The Corsair, in a transport of surprise,
When he beheld Almida's sparkling eyes,

Her faultless figure, her majestic air,
The graceful ringlets of her auburn hair,

That twined in many a fold to deck,
Not hide, the dazzling whiteness of her neck;
The various charms her flowing robe reveald,

While fancy whisper'd to his throbbing heart

Each nameless beauty that well judging art, To fix the roving mind, had carefully conceald"O Mahomet! I thank thee (he exclaim'd),

That to thy servant thou hast given

This bright inhabitant of heaven; To gild the progress of his life below,

For him this beauteous Houri framed; Enjoyment I have known, but never loved till now.'

Then with a smile
Might e'en a Stoic's heart beguile,

The fair one with a little flattery
To his charm'd ears address'd her battery

• Still may my Lord (said she) approve
The happy object of his love,

Then when Almida sues, Let not Abdalla's heart her first request refuse : Deign to suspend but for three days

The progress of your amorous flame, And to console my heart for these delays, Grant me two small requests that I shall name,

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