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SONG, by a Perfon of Quality.

Written in the Year 1733

I.

F Luttering fpread thy purple Pinions,

Gentle Cupid, o'er my Heart;

I a Slave in thy Dominions;
Nature must give Way to Art.

II.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your Flocks,
See my weary Days confuming,
All beneath yon flowery Rocks.
III.

Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling Youth:
Him the Boar, in Silence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting Tooth.
IV.

Cynthia, tune harmonious Numbers;
Fair Difcretion, ftring the Lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking Slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy Choir.

V.

Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine Chains,
Lead me to the Crystal Mirrors,
Watering foft Elysian Plains.

VI.

Mournful Cypress, verdant Willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's Brows,
Morpheus hovering o'er my Pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

VII.

Melancholy fmooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a Round,
On thy Margin Lovers wander,

With thy flowery Chaplets crown'd.

VIII.

Thus when Philomela drooping,
Softly feeks her filent Mate,

See the Bird of Juno stooping;
Melody refigns to Fate.

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.

I

Know the thing that's most uncommon ;

(Envy be filent, and attend!)

I know a reasonable Woman,

Handsome and witty, yet a Friend.

Not warp'd by Paffion, aw'd by Rumour,

Not grave through Pride, nor gay through Folly,

An equal Mixture of Good-humour,

And fenfible foft Melancholy.

"Has fhe no faults then (Envy fays) Sir?"

Yes, she has one, I must aver:
When all the World confpires to praise her,

The Woman's deaf, and does not hear.

On

On his GROTTO at Twickenham,

COMPOSED OF..

MARBLE, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, and MINERALS.

HOU who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent

THO

wave

5

Shines a broad Mirrour through the shadowy Cave;
Where lingering drops from mineral Roofs distil,
And pointed Crystals break the sparkling Rill,
Unpolish'd Gems no Ray on Pride beftow,
And latent Metals innocently glow:
Approach. Great NATURE ftudiously behold!
And eye the Mine without a wifh for Gold.
Approach: but awful! Lo! th' Ægerian Grott,
Where, nobly penfive, ST. JOHN fat and thought;
Where British fighs from dying WYNDHAM stole,
And the bright flame was shot through MARCHMOHT'S
Soul.

Let fuch, fuch only, tread this facred Floor,
Who dare to love their Country, and be poor.

10

VOL. II.

A a

To

To Mrs. M. B. on her BIRTH-DAY.

OH, be thou bleft with all that Heaven can fend,

Long Health, long Youth, long Pleasure, and a
Friend:

Not with thofe Toys the female world admire,
Riches that vex, and Vanities that tire.
With added years, if Life bring nothing new,
But like a Sieve let every bleffing through,
Some joy ftill loft, as each vain year runs o'er,
And all we gain, fome fad Reflection more;
Is that a Birth-Day? 'tis, alas! too clear,
'Tis but the Funeral of the former year.

Let Joy or Eafe, let Affluence or Content,
And the gay Confcience of a life well spent,
Calm every thought, infpirit every grace,
Glow in thy heart, and smile upon thy face.
Let day improve on day, and year on year,
Without a Pain, a Trouble, or a Fear;
Till Death unfelt that tender frame destroy,
In fome foft dream, or Ecstasy of joy,
Peaceful fleep out the Sabbath of the Tomb,
And wake to Raptures in a Life to come.

VARIATION.

Ver. 15. Originally thus in the MS.

And oh fince Death muft that fair frame destroy,
Die, by fome fudden Ecftafy of Joy;

In fome foft dream may thy mild foul remove,
And be thy latest gafp a Sigh of Love.

5

10

15

20

To

355

To Mr. THOMAS SOUTHERN,

R

On his Birth-day, 1742.

ESIGN'D to live, prepar'd to die,
With not one fin, but poetry,

This day Tom's fair Account has run
(Without a blot) to eighty-one.
Kind Boyle, before his poet, lays
A table, with a cloth of bays;
And Ireland, mother of sweet fingers,
Prefents her harp ftill to his fingers.
The feast, his towering genius marks
In yonder wild-goofe and the larks!

The mushrooms fhew his wit was fudden!
And for his judgment, lo a pudden !

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Roast beef, though old, proclaims him stout,
Aud grace, although a bard, devout.

May Tom, whom Heaven fent down to raise
The price of prologues and of plays,

15

Be every birth-day more a winner,
Digeft his thirty-thousandth dinner 3
Walk to his grave without reproach,
And fcorn a rascal and a coach.

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