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The Mulcibers, who in the Minories sweat,
And massive bars on stubborn anvils beat,
Deform’d themselves, yet, forge those stays of steel,
Which arm Aurelia with a shape to kill.
So Macer and Mundungus school the times,
And write in rugged prose the rules of softer rhymes.
Well do they play the careful critic's part,
Instructing doubly by their matchless art :
Rules for good verse they first with pains indite,
Then Thew us what are bad, by what they write.
INCEREST Critic of my prose or rhime,
Tell how thy pleasing Stowe employs thy time, Say, Cobham, what amuses thy retreat ? Or stratagems of war, or schemes of state? Dost thou recall to mind with joy, or grief, Great Marlborough's actions ? That immortal chief, Whofe slightest trophy rais’d in each campaign, More than suffic'd to signalize a reign ? Does thy remembrance rising warm thy heart, With glory past, where thou thy self hadst part, Or dost thou grieve indignant now to see, The fruitless end of all thy victory?
To see th' audacious foe, fo late fubdued,
Dispute those terms for which so long they sued,
As if Britannia now were sunk fo low,
To beg that peace she wonted to bestow.
Be far that guilt! be never known that shame!
That England should retract her rightful claim,
Or, cealing to be dreaded and ador’d,
Stain with her pen the lustre of her fword,
Or dost thou give the winds afar to blow.
Each vexing thought, and heart-devouring woe,
And fix thy mind alone on rural scenes,
To turn the leveld lawns to liquid plains,
To raise the creeping rills from humble beds,
And force the latent fprings to lift their heads,
On watery columns, capitals to rear,
That mix their flowing curls with upper
Or dost thou, weary grown, these works neglect,
No temples, ftatues, obelisks erect,
But catch the morning breeze from fragrant meads,
Or shun the noontide ray in wholesome 1hades,
Or slowly walk along the mazy wood,
To meditate on all that 's wife and good,
For nature bountiful in thee has join'd,
A person pleasing with a worthy mind,
Not given the form alone, but means,
To draw the eye, or to allure the heart,
Poor were the praise in fortune to excel,
Yet want the way to use that fortune well.
While thus adorn'd, while thus with virtue crown'd,
At home in peace, abroad in arms renown'd,
Graceful in form, and winning in address,
While well you think, what aptly you express,
With health, with honour, with a fair estate,
A table free, and eloquently neat,
What can be added more to mortal bliss ?
What can he want who stands pofseft of this ?
What can the fondest wishing mother more
Of heaven attentive for her son implore ?
And yet a happiness remains unknown,
Or to philosophy reveal'd alone ;
A precept, which unpractis'd renders vain
Thy flowing hopes, and pleasure turns to pain.
Should Hope and Fear thy heart alternate tear,
Or Love, or Hate, or Rage, or anxious Care,
Whatever passions may thy mind infeft,
(Where is that mind which passions ne'er molest?)
Amidst the pangs of such intestine strife,
Still think the present day, the last of life;
Defer not till to-morrow to be wise,
To-morrow's sun to thee may never rise.
Or should to-morrow chance to cheer thy sight,
With her enlivening and unlook’d-for light,
How grateful will appear her dawning rays !
As favours unexpected doubly please.
Who thus can think, and who such thoughts pursues,
Content may keep his life, or calmly lose ;
All proofs of this thou may'st thyself receive,
When leisure from affairs will give thee leave,
Come, see thy friend, retir'd without regret,
Forgetting care, or ftriving to forget;
In easy contemplation foothing time
With morals much, and now and then with rhyme,
Not so robust in body, as in mind,
And always undejected, though declind;
Not wondering at the world's new wicked ways,
Compar’d with those of our fore-fathers days,
For virtue now is neither more or less,
And vice is only varied in the dress ;
Believe it, men have ever been the same,
And all the golden age, is but a dream.
WRITTEN AT TUNBRIDGE WELLS,
Afterwards Lady of Sir THOMAS LYTTELTON.
LEAVE, leave the drawing-room,
Where flowers of beauty us’d to bloom; The nymph that's fated to o'ercome,
Now triumphs at the wells.
Her shape, and air, and eyes,
Her face, the
the wise, The beau, in spite of box land dice,
Acknowledge, all excels.
Cease, cease, to ask her name,
The crowned Muse's nobleit theme,
Whole glory by immortal fame,
Shall only founded be.
But if you long to know,
Then look round yonder dazzling row,
Who most does like an angel show,
You may be fure'tis she.
See near those sacred springs,
Which cure to fell diseases brings,
(As ancient fame of Ida sings)
Three goddesses appear !
Wealth, glory, two possest;
The third with charming beauty bleft,
So fair, that heaven and earth confest
She conquer'd every where.
Like her, this charmer now
Makes every love-fick gazer bow;
Nay, even old
And banish'd flames recall,
Wealth can no trophy rear,
Nor glory now the garland wear :
To beauty every Paris here
Devotes the golden ball.