What creature's that, fo very pert and prim;
So very full of foppery and whim;
So gentle, yet fo brifk; fo wondrous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's feet;
Who looks as he the Lord's rich vineyard trod,
And by his garb appears a man of God ?
Truft not to looks, nor credit outward show;
The villain lurks beneath the caflock'd Beau;
That's an Informer; what avails the name ?
Suffice it, that the wretch from Sodom came.
His tongue is deadly-from his prefence run,
Unless thy rage would wish to be undone.
No ties can hold him, no affection bind,
And Fear alone restrains his coward mind.
Free him from that, no monster is fo fell,
Nor is fo fure a blood-hound found in hell.
His filken fmiles, his hypocritic air,
His meek demeanour, plaufible and fair,
Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way,
And make gull'd Virtue fall a furer prey.
Attend his church--his plan of doctrine view:
The Preacher is a Chriftian, dull, but true;
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But when the hallow'd hour of preaching 's o'er,
The plan of doctrine 's never thought of more;
Chrift is laid by neglected on the shelf,
And the vile Prieft is Gofpel to himself.
By Cleland tutor'd, and with Blacow bred,
(Blacow, whom, by a brave refentment led,
Oxford, if Oxford had not funk in fame,
Ere this, had damn'd to everlasting fhame)
Their fteps he follows, and their crimes partakes,
To Virtue loft, to Vice alone he wakes;
Moft lufciously declaims 'gainft luscious themes,
And, whilft he rails at blafphemy, blafphemes.
Are thefe the arts which Policy fupplies?
Are thefe the fteps by which grave Churchmen
rife?
Forbid it, Heav'n! or, fhould it turn out fo,
Let me, and mine, continue mean and low.
Such be their arts whom Intereft controuls;
Kidgell and I have free and honeft fouls:
We icorn preferment which is gain'd by Sin,
And will, tho' poor without, have peace
EPIGRAMS, EPITAPHS, AND OTHER LITTLE PIECES.
On a very rich Gentleman drinking the Waters of
Tunbridge Wells, who had refused to contribute to
toe Relief of a distressed Family.
FOR deepest woes old Harpax fcorns to feel;
Think ye his bowels ftand in need of steel?
On a Lady who fquinted.
ancient poets Argus prize, Who boafted of an hundred eyes, Sure greater praife to her is due, Who looks an hundred ways with two.
The Art of making one's own Sermons, illuftrated AS Will along the floor had laid
ACK ftole his difcourfe from the fam'd Doctor,
But, reading it damnably, made it his own.
ITZ to the Peerage knows he's a disgrace;
So mounts the coach-box, as his proper place.
WHILE Dick to combs hoftility proclaims,
A neighbouring taper fets his hair in flames: The blaze extinct, permit us to enquire "Were there no lives loft, Richard, in the fire?"
Ignotum omne pro magnifico. AVERSE to pamper'd and high-mettled feeds, His own upon chopp'd ftraw Avaro feeds: Bred in his ftable, in his paddock born, What vaft ideas they must have of corn!
A Cafe of Confcience; fubmitted to a late Dignitary of the Church, on his Narcotic Expofition of the following Text: "Watch and Pray, left ye enter into Temptation."
BY our paftor perplext,
How hall we determine? Watch and Pray," fays the Text, Go to fleep," fays the Sermon.
His lazy limbs in folemn fhow, "You 're ill," quoth Sal, "I'm fore afraid". "Indeed," fays Will, "I'm rather low."
To a Lady, with the Print of Venus attired by the
Graces.
HAT far fuperior is thy state
TH
Even envy must agree;
On thee a thoufand Graces wait,
On Venus only three.
CELIA, do not fay, O fie!
In that wind my love has fpoke; Trust me, 't was an erring figh Thro' a nether passage broke.
THRICE three years, and fomething more,
Have I thefe plush breeches wore ;
Now forc'd, ere yet the tenth completed,
Through too much fitting, to be feated!
To a Gentleman who was obliged to retreat for
fear of difagreeable Retaliation.
THAT Cotta is fo pale, so spare,
No caufe for wonder now affords;
He lives, alas! on empty fare,
Who lives by eating his own words.
Epitaph on a Lady. By PETER PINDAR. BENEATH this turf, in sweet repose, The friend of allI-a fair one liesYet hence let forrow vent her wocs, Far hence let pity pour her fighs. The mufe the ftrain of grief forbears, Tho' ev'ry hour thy life approv'd, Nor wishes, tho' by all belov'd,
To call thee to a world of tears.
Beft of thy fex! alas, farewel!
From this dark scene remov'd to fhine,
Where pureft fhades of mortals dwell,
And virtue waits to welcome thine.
The Clown's Reply. GOLDSMITH. JOHN Trott was defired by two witty Peers
To tell them the reafon why affes had cars: An't pleafe you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters, [betters: Nor dare I pretend to know more than my Howe'er, from this time, I thall ne'er fee your graces, affes "As I hope to be fav'd! without thinking on
And afk'd blunt Senfo if 't were fashion'd" just.
"Ma'am," he replied, "in this 'tis much like you, "The face is painted, and that badly too."
An Elegy on the Glory of ber Sex. By the fame, GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From thofe who spoke her praise.
The needy feldom pafs'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.
She ftrove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when he was finning.
At church, with filks and fatins new,
With hoop of monstrous fize;
She never flumber'd in her pew-
But when the shut her eyes,
Her love was fought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himfelf has follow'd her-
When the has walk'd before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when the was dead,
Her laft diforder-mortal.
Let us lament in forrow fore;
For Kent-street well may fay,
That, had the liv'd a twelvemonth more,
She had not died to-day.
On a Mifer. Mafter PHILIP DODD.
IRON was his cheft,
Iron was his door,
His hand was iron,
And his heart was more.
On Mr. Churchill's Death.
On a Painter that painted large Pictures.
By the fame.
THIS year, of picture Mr. West
Is quite a Patagonian maker→
He knows that bulk is not a jeft;
So gives us painting by an acre.
Epitaph on Dr. William Clarke, the celebrated Anti-
quary, and Mrs. Ann Clarke, bis Wife. By
WILLIAM HAYLEY, Efq.
AYS Tom to Richard, "Churchill's dead." MILD William Clarke, and Ann his wife,
Says Richard, "Tom, you lic:
"Old Rancour the report has fpread, "But Genius cannot die."
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Whom happy love had join'd in life,
United in an humble tomb,
Await the everlasting doom.
And blefs'd the dead! prepar'd as these,
To meet our Saviour's juft decrees!
On earth their hearts were known to feel
Such charity and chriftian zeal,
That, fhould the world for ages laft,
In adverfe fortune's bitter blast,
few friends fo warm will man find here,
And God no fervants more fincere.
On the Death of a promifing Youth of Eighteen.
THO' death the virtuous young destroy,
They go to reft-and heavenly joy:
Life is not to be judg'd by days,
Virtue endures when time decays.
And many old we falfely call,
Who truly never liv'd at all.
For what is time, if not employ'd
In worthy deeds-but all a void?
Then think not, tho' abridg'd by fate,
Too fhort this youth's allotted date.
With dignity he fill'd his fpan,
In conduct and in worth a man.
So fpent a life-to Heaven appears
As full as Neftor's length of years.
On a whole Family cut off by the Small-pox.
Mafter PETER Rainer;
AT once depriv'd of life, lies here
A family, to virtue dear.
Tho' far remov'd from regal state,
Their virtues made them truly great.
Left one should feel the other's fall,
Death has in kindness feiz'd them all.
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Then fure you will fay he's deficient in brain;, Love does never thee molest,
Love, that tyrant of our breast:
Or his head to a ftill you'll compare,
That does little or nothing but limples contain,Than the birds more happy thou;
And yields them by drops that are rare.
They the fpring to love allow, Who no tribute has from thee,
A Diflich, written by Mr. Cowper, at the request of Emblem thou of liberty!
a Gentleman who importuned him to write fume-Hail! chafte, frugal animal, thing in his Pocket Album. Happieft, wifeft, beft of all.
WERE indeed indifferent to fame,
Grudging two lines t' immortalize my name.
An old Gentleman of the name of Page, finding a Lady's Glove, fent it to the Owner, with this Diflich, and received the following Answer.
that from Glove you take the letter G, Then Glove is love, and that I fend to thee. Anfwer.
IF that from Page you take the letter P,
Then Page is age, and that won't do for me.
ABSCINDING form, divide the liquid air,
wings metallic fly unto my fair;
To her acute and faithful ever prove,
But never cut th' increating plumes of love.
On bis Excellency the late Lord Galloway and his
Cook.
AYS my Lord to his cook, "You for of a punk, S« How comes it I fee you, thus, ev'ry day drunk:
Phyficians, they fay, once a month do allow, "A man for his health, to get drunk-as a fow." "That is right," quoth the cook, "but the day "they don't fay; [day. "So, for fear I fhould mifs it, I'm drunk ev'ry
An Occonomical Reflection.
LL mortal things are frail-and go to pot.
What wonder then if mortal trowfers rot?
My velvet torn, I fhone in mimic shag:
Thofe foon grew rufty and-began to flag.
Buck-fkin was greafy; ferge de nym was queer;
Camblet was airy; but how apt to tear !
Quoth I, "Sir Prickloufe, fhall we try a rug?"
Yes, Sir," fays he, "that fure will hold a tug.'
Ah! no; the rug decay'd, like all the past,
Even everlafing would not ever laft.
At length; guefs how I fix'd it.Why, in troth,
With projects tir'd-I stuck to common cloth.
PRETTY, little, buzzing thing!
Arm'd by nature with a fting; Lazy man's oblig'd to thee, Pattern thou of industry! When the fields rich fcents exhale, And new beauty decks each vale, Bufy all the thining day Ev'ry flow'r thou mak'st thy prey, And fweet honey home doit bring, Rifier of the bloomy fpring!
To an unfortunate Beauty.
SAY, lovely maid, with downcaft eye,
And check with filent for row pale,
What gives thy heart the lengthen'd figh,
That heaving tells a mournful tale?
Thy tears, which thus each other chafe,
Befpeak a breaft o'erwhelm'd with woe;
Thy fighs, a ftorm which wrecks my peace,
Which fouls like thine fhould never know.
Oh! tell me, doth fome favour'd youth
Too often bleft thy beauties flight;
And leave thofe thrones of love and truth,
That lip, and bofom of delight?
What though to other nymphs he flies,
And feigns the fond impaffion'd tear,
Breathes all the eloquence of fighs
That treach'rous won thy artless ear:
Let not thofe nymphs thy anguish move,
For whom his heart may feem to pine;
That heart shall ne'er be bleft by love,
Whofe guilt can force a pang from thine.
BY the woodlark, by the thrush,
Wildly warbling from the buth;
By the Fairy's fhadowy tread
O'er the cowflip's dewy head:
Father, monarch of the ftage,
Glory of Eliza's age,
Shakspeare! deign to lend thy face,
This romantic nook to grace;
Where untaught Nature fports alone
Since thou and Nature are but one.
THE Chartreux wants the warning of a bell,
To call him to the duties of his cell;
There needs no noife at all t' awaken fin,
Th' adulterer and thief his 'larum has within.
Lines fent to Mr. Cofway, while Lady C. Pawlet
was fitting to him.
COSWAY, my Cathrine fits to you:
And that the col'ing may be true,
This nofegay on your palette place,
Replete with all the tints that grace
The various beauties of her face.
Her kin the fnow-drop's whiteness fhews,
Her blufhing check the op'ning rofe;
Her eyes the modcft violet fpeak,
Whofe fiken fringes kifs her cheek.
The fpicy pink, in morning dew,
Prefents her fragrant lips to view;
* A ribb'd-ftuff fo called.
Shakspeare's Walk.
hills with moffing spread,
Lifting up the tufted head;
By thofe golden waves of corn
Which the laughing fields adorn;
By the fragrant breath of flowers
Stealing from the woodbine bowers;
By this thought-infpiring fhade;
By the gleamings of the glade;
By the babbling of the brook,
Winding flow in many a crook;
By the rustling of the trees;
By the humming of the becs.
On feeing a Dog afleep near bis Mafler.
THRICE happy dog! thou feel'ft no woe,
No anguith to moleft
Thy peaceful hours that fweetly flow,
Alternate sport and rest.
Man's call'd thy lord-affliction's heir!
And forrow's only fon!
Whilft he's a flave to ev'ry care,
And thou art flave to none.
Bleft, near thy mafter thus to lie,
And bleft with him to rove!
Unftain'd by guilt thy moments fly,
On wings of grateful love.
Oh that my heart, like tline, could tafte
The fweets of guiltlefs life!
Beyond the reach of paffion plac'd,
Its anguish and its ftrife.
On a Waiter, once at Arthur's, and a Fellow-fervant
of his there, both fince Members of Parliament,
and the laft a Nabob.
WHEN Bob M-ck-th, with upper fervant's
pride,
"Here, firrah, clean my fhoes," to Rumb-d
cry'd.
He humbly answer'd, "Yea, Bob,"
But fince return'd from India's plunder'd land, The purfe-proud Rumb-d now, on fuch command,
Would ftoutly answer, "Nay, Bob."
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Verses written by a Gentleman on finding an Urn.
RIFLING mortal, tell me why
Thou haft difturb'd my urn;
Want'st thou to find out what am I?
Vain man! attend and learn:
To know what letters fpelt my name
Is ufclefs quite to thee;
An heap of duft is all I am,
And all that thou shalt be.
Go now, that heap of duft explore,
Measure its grains, or weigh;
Can't thou the title which I bore
Diftinguish in the clay?
What glitt'ring honours, or high truft,
Once dignified me here,
Were characters impreft on duft,
Which quickly disappear.
Nor will the fparkling atoms fhew
A Clodius, or a Guelph:
Vain fearch! if here the fource thou 'dst know,
Of nobles, or thyself,
The mould will yield no evidence,
By which thou mayft divine,
If lords or beggars iffued thence,
And form'd the ancient line.
Learn then the vanity of birth:
Condition, honours, name,
All are but modes of common earth,
The fubftance juft the fame.
Bid av'rice and ambition view
Th' extent of all their gains;
Themfelves, and their poffeflions too,
A gallon vafe contains.
Hafte, lift thy thoughts from earthly things
To more fubftantial blifs;
And leave that grov'ling pride to kings,
Which ends in dirt like this.
Let virtue be thy radiant guide,
'Twill dignify thy clay,
And raife thy afhes glorified,
When funs fhall fade away.
Upon a Gnat burnt in a Candle.
TRIFLING infect! that art Low
But an airy gnat below,
To the pleafing flame too nigh
Ah! what folly made thee fly
Seeming good, that treach'rous ill
Cheated thine, that cheats man's will.
Simple thing! how fhould it thou fear
What fo beauteous feem'd, and fair?
Thus deceitful pleafure's fmile
Did thy filly life beguile.
What from envy can be free,
If ill-fate could envy thee?
The Negro's Complaint.
WIDE over the tremulous fea
The moon spread her mantle of light,
And the gale, gently dying away,
Breath'd foft on the bofom of night.
On the fore-caftle Maratan ftood,
And pour'd forth his forrowful tale;
His tears fell unfeen in the flood,
His fighs pafs'd unheard on the gale,
Ah! wretch, in wild anguish he cry'd,
From country and liberty torn;
Ah! Maratan, wouldst thou had died,.
Ere o'er the falt waves thou wert borne.
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