Would it not spoil his noble task,

If any foolish Phrygian there is Impertinent enough to ask,

How far Namur may be from Paris?

Two stanzas more before we end,

Of death, pikes, rocks, arms, bricks, and fire; Leave them behind you, honest friend,

And with your countrymen retire.
Your ode is spoilt; Namur is freed:
For Dixmuyd something yet is due;
So good count Guiscard may proceed;*

But, Boufflers, sir, one word with you

'Tis done. In sight of these commanders,
Who neither fight nor raise the siege,
The foes of France march safe through Flanders,
Divide to Bruxelles or to Liege.

Send, Fame, this news to Trianon,

That Boufflers may new honours gain;
He the same play by land has shown,
As Tourville did upon the main.†
Yet is the Marshal made a peer:

O, William! may thy arms advance,
That he may lose Dinant next year,

And so be Constable of France.

*Count Guiscard was commander of the town of Namur, and Marshal Boufflers of the castle.

+ M. de Tourville commanded the French squadron which en. gaged Admiral Russell off La Hogue, in 1692.

TO A LADY,

SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME, AND
LEAVING ME IN THE ARGUMENT.

SPARE, generous Victor, spare the slave
Who did unequal war pursue,

That more than triumph he might have,
In being overcome by you.

In the dispute, whate'er I said

My heart was by my tongue belied, And in my looks you might have read How much I argued on your side.

You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustain'd an open fight;
For seldom your opinions err;

Your eyes are always in the right.

Why, fair-one, would you not rely

On Reason's force with Beauty's join'd Could I their prevalence deny,

I must at once be deaf and blind.

Alas! not hoping to subdue,

I only to the fight aspir'd:
To keep the beauteous foe in view
Was all the glory I desir'd.

But she, howe'er of victory sure,

Contemns the wreath too long delay'd, And, arm'd with more immediate pow'r, Calls cruel silence to her aid.

Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;
She drops her arms to gain the field;
Secures her conquest by her flight,

And triumphs, when she seems to yield.

So when the Parthian turn'd his steed,
And from the hostile camp withdrew,
With cruel skill the backward reed
He sent; and, as he fled, he slew.

DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS. DEMOCRITUS, dear droll, revisit earth, And with our follies glut thy heighten'd mirth: Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch, return, In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn. Between you both, I unconcern'd stand by; Hurt, can I laugh? and honest, need I cry?

THE FEMALE PHAETON.

THUS Kitty, beautiful and young,
And wild as colt untam'd,

Bespoke the fair from whence she sprung,
With little rage inflam'd:

• Inflam'd with rage at sad restraint,
Which wise mamma ordain'd,
And sorely vex'd to play the saint,
Whilst wit and beauty reign'd.

'Shall I thumb holy books, confin'd
With Abigails, forsaken?
Kitty's for other things design'd,
Or I am much mistaken.

'Must Lady Jenny frisk about, And visit with her cousins?

At balls must she make all the rout, And bring home hearts by dozens?

'What has she better, pray, than I?
What hidden charms to boast,
That all mankind for her should die,
Whilst I am scarce a toast?

'Dearest mamma, for once let me,
Unchain'd, my fortune try:
I'll have my earl as well as she,
Or know the reason why.

"I'll soon with Jenny's pride quit score, Make all her lovers fall:

They'll grieve I was not loos'd before: She, I was loos'd at all.'

Fondness prevail'd, mamma gave way:
Kitty, at heart's desire,
Obtain'd the chariot for a day,

And set the world on fire.

UPON THIS

PASSAGE IN SCALIGERANA,

Les Allemans ne ce soucient pas quel vin ils boivent pourveu que ce soit vin, ni quel Latin ils parlent pourveu que ce soit Latin.

WHEN you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,

Expect false Latin, and stum'd wine:
They never taste who always drink;
They always talk who never think.

A PASSAGE IN THE

MORIE ENCOMIUM OF ERASMUS.

IMITATED.

In awful pomp and melancholy state,
See settled Reason on the judgment seat;
Around her crowd Distrust, and Doubt, and Fear,
And thoughtful Foresight, and tormenting Care;
Far from the throne the trembling Pleasures stand,
Chain'd up or exil'd by her stern command.
Wretched her subjects, gloomy sits the queen,
Till happy Chance reverts the cruel scene;
And apish Folly, with her wild resort
Of Wit and Jest, disturbs the solemn court.
See the fantastic Minstrelsy advance
To breathe the song and animate the dance.
Bless'd the usurper! happy the surprise!
Her mimic postures catch our eager eyes;