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 profe 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 shew us what are bad, by what they write.
LORD VISCOUNT СОВНАМ, 1729.
"Albi fermonum noftrorum candide judex."
SINCEREST Critic of my profe
Tell how thy pleasing Stowe employs thy time,
Say, Cobham, what amuses thy retreat?
Or stratagems of war, or schemes of state?
Doft thou recall to mind with joy, or grief,
Great Marlborough's actions? That immortal chief,
Whose flightest trophy rais'd in each campaign,
More than fuffic'd to signalize a reign?
Does thy remembrance rifing warm thy heart,
With glory paft, where thou thy self hadst part,
Or doft thou grieve indignant now to fee,
The fruitless end of all thy victory?
To fee th' audacious foe, so late subdued, Difpute those terms for which so long they fued, As if Britannia now were sunk so 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, ceafing to be dreaded and ador'd, Stain with her pen the luftre 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 level'd lawns to liquid plains, To raise the creeping rills from humble beds, And force the latent springs to lift their heads, On watery columns, capitals to rear, That mix their flowing curls with upper air. Or doft thou, weary grown, these works neglect, No temples, statues, obelisks erect, Butcatch the morning breeze from fragrant meads, Or thun the noontide ray in wholesome shades, Or flowly 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, and art, To draw the eye, or to allure the heart, Poor were the praife 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 eftate,
A table free, and eloquently neat,
What can be added more to mortal blifs?
What can he want who stands poffeft of this?
What can the fondest wishing mother more
Of heaven attentive for her son implore?
And yet a happiness remains unknown,
Or to philofophy 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 paffions may thy mind infeft,
(Where is that mind which paffions ne'er moleft?)
Amidst the pangs of fuch intestine strife,
Still think the present day, the laft of life;
Defer not till to-morrow to be wife,
To-morrow's fun to thee may never rife.
Or should to-morrow chance to cheer thy fight,
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 thyfelf receive,
When leifure from affairs will give thee leave,
Come, fee thy friend, retir'd without regret,
Forgetting care, or striving to forget;
In easy contemplation foothing time
With morals much, and now and then with rhyme,
Not fo robust in body, as in mind,
And always undejected, though declin'd;
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,
Afterwards Lady of Sir THOMAS LYTTELTON.
IEAVE, leave the drawing-roont,
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 gay, the grave, the wife,
The beau, in fpite of box and dice,
Acknowledge, all excels.
Ceafe, ceafe, to ask her name,
The crowned Muse's noblest theme,
Whose 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 blest,
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 age her power allow,
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.
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