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Dar'st in thy grov'ling situation, To counterfeit my sibilation."

The snake enrag'd, reply'd, "Know, madam, I date my charter down from Adam;

Nor can I, since I bear the bell,

E'er imitate where I excell.
Had any other creature dar'd
Once to aver, what you've averr'd,

I might have been more fierce and fervent,
But you're a goose, and so your servant."
"Truce with your folly and your pride,"
The warbling Philomela cry'd;
"Since no more animals we find
In nature of the hissing kind,

You should be friends with one another,
Nay, kind as brother is to brother.
For know, thou pattern of abuse,
Thou snake art but a crawling goose;
And thou dull dabbler in each lake,
Art nothing but a feather'd snake."

MRS. ABIGAIL AND THE DUMB WAITER.

FABLE XV.

WITH frowning brow, and aspect low'ring,
As Abigail one day was scow'ring,
From chair to chair she past along,
Without soliloquy or song;
Content, in humdrum mood, t'adjust
Her matters to disperse the dust.-
Thus plodded on the sullen fair,
'Till a dumb-waiter claim'd her care;
She then in rage, with shrill salute,
Bespoke the inoffensive mute:-
"Thou stupid tool of vapourish asses,
With thy brown shelves for pots and glasses;
Thou foreign whirligig, for whom
Us honest folks must quit the room;
And, like young misses at a christ'ning,
Are forc'd to be content with list'ning;
Though thou'rt a fav'rite of my master's,
'll set thee gadding on thy castors."
This said-with many a rough attack,
She scrubb'd him 'till she made him crack;
Insulted stronger still and stronger,
The poor dumb thing could hold no longer
"Thou drab, born mops and brooms to dandle,
Thou haberdasher of small scandal,
Factor of family abuse,

Retailer of domestic news;
My lord, as soon as I appear,
Confines thee in thy proper sphere;
Or else, at ev'ry place of call,

The chandler's shop, or cobler's stall,
Or ale-house, where (for petty tales,
Gin, beer, and ale are constant vails)
Each word at table that was spoke,
Wou'd soon become the public joke,
And cheerful innocent converse,
To scandal warp'd-or something worse.-
Where'er my master I attend,
Freely his mind he can unbend ;-
But when such praters fill my place,
Then nothing should be said-but grace."

THE BAG-WIG AND THE TOBACCO

PIPE.

FABLE XVI.

A BAG-WIG of a jauntee air.
Trick'd up with all a barber's care,
Loaded with powder and perfume,
Hung in a spendthrift's dressing-room!
Close by its side, by chance convey'd,
A black tobacco-pipe was laid;
And with its vapours far and near,
Outstunk the essence of Monsieur;
At which its rage, the thing of hair,
Thus, bristling up, began declare.

"Bak'd dirt! that with intrusion rude
Break'st in upon my solitude,
And whose offensive breath defiles
The air for forty thousand miles-
Avaunt-pollution's in thy touch---

O barb'rous Englishman! horrid Dutch!
I cannot bear it-Here, Sue, Nan,
Go call the maid to call the man,
And bid him come without delay,
To take this odious pipe away.

Hideous! sure some one smok'd thee, friend,
Reversely, at his t'other end.

Oh! what mix'd odours! what a throng
Of salt and sour, of stale and strong!
A most unnatural combination,
Enough to mar all perspiration-
Monstrous! again-'twou'd vex a saint!
Susan, the drops or else I faint!"
The pipe (for 'twas a pipe of soul)
Raising himself upon his bole,

In smoke, like oracle of old,
Did thus his sentiments unfold.

"Why, what's the matter, Goodman Swagger, Thou flaunting French, fantastic bragger? Whose whole fine speech is (with a pox) Ridiculous and heterodox.

'Twas better for the English nation
Before such scoundrels came in fashion,
When none sought hair in realms unknown,
But every blockhead bore his own.
Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe,
Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe,
Who, with my cloud-compelling aid,
Help our plantations and our trade,
And am, when sober and when mellow,
An upright, downright, honest fellow.
Though fools, like you, may think me rough,
And scorn me, 'cause I am in buff,
Yet your contempt I glad receive,
'Tis all the fame that you can give:
None finery or fopp'ry prize,

But they who've something to disguise;
For simple nature hates abuse,
And plainness is the dress of Use."

CARE AND GENEROSITY.
FABLE XVII.

OLD Care, with industry and art,
At length so well had play'd his part;
He heap'd up such an ample store,
That av'rice could not sigh for more:

Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,
His coffers overflow'd with gold;
The land all round him was his own.
With corn his crowded granaries groan.
In short, so vast his charge and gain,
That to possess them was a pain:
With happiness oppress'd he lies,
And much too prudent to be wise.
Near him there liv'd a beauteous maid,
With all the charms of youth array'd;
Good, amiable, sincere and free,
Her name was Generosity.
'Twas hers the largess to bestow
On rich and poor, on friend and foe.
Her doors to all were open'd wide,
The pilgrim there might safe abide :
For th' hungry and the thirsty crew,
The bread she broke, the drink she drew;
There Sickness laid her aching head,
And there Distress cou'd find a bed.-
Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,
Diffus'd she blessings round the land:
Her gifts and glory lasted long,

And numerous was th' accepting throng.
At length pale Penury seiz'd the dame,
And Fortune fled, and Ruin came,
She found her riches at an end,
And that she had not made one friend.-
All curs'd her for not giving more,
Nor thought on what she'd done before;.
She wept, she rav'd, she tore her hair,
When lo! to comfort her came Care.→
And cry'd," My dear, if you will join
Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;
All will be well-you shall have store,
And I be plagu'd with wealth no more.
Tho' I restrain your bounteous heart,
You still shall act the generous part.”—
The bridal came-great was the feast,
And good the pudding and the priest;
The bride in nine moons brought him forth
A little maid of matchless worth:
Her face was mix'd of care and glee,
They christen'd her Economy;
And styled her fair Discretion's queen,
The mistress of the golden mean,
Now Generosity confin'd,
Perfectly easy in her mind;

Still loves to give, yet knows to spare,
Nor wishes to be free from Care.

THE PIG.

FABLE XVIII.

Is every age, and each profession,
Men err the most by prepossession,
But when the thing is clearly shown,
And fairly stated, fully known,
We soon applaud what we deride,
And penitence succeeds to pride.—
A certain baron on a day,
Having a mind to show away,
Invited all the wits and wags,

Foot, Massey, Shutter, Yates and Skeggs,
And built a large commodious stage,

For the choice spirits of the age;

But above all, among the rest,

There came a genius who profess'd

To have a curious trick in store,
Which never was perform'd before.
Thro' all the town this soon got air,
And the whole house was like a fair;
But soon his entry as he made,
Without a prompter, or parade,
'Twas all expectance, all suspense,
And silence gagg'd the audience.
He hid his head behind his wig.
And with such truth took off a pig,
All swore 'twas serious, and no joke,
For doubtless underneath his cloak,
He had conceal'd some grunting elf,
Or, was a real hog himself.

A search was made, no pig was found-
With thund'ring claps the seats resound,
And pit, and box, and galleries roar,
With-O rare! bravo! and encore.
Old Roger Grouse, a country clown,
Who yet knew something of the town,
Beheld the mimic and his whim,
And on the morrow challeng'd him,
Declaring to each beau and bunter,
That he'd out-grunt th' egregious grunter.
The morrow came the crowd was greater-
But prejudice and rank ill-nature

Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches,
Who came to hiss, and break the benches.
The mimic took his usual station,

And squeak'd with general approbation.
"Again, encore! encore "" they cry-
"Twas quite the thing-'twas very high:
Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket,
A real pig beneath his jacket—
Then forth he came-and with his nail
He pinch'd the urchin by the tail.
The tortur'd pig from out his throat,
Produc'd the genuine natʼral note.
All bellow'd out-'twas very sad!
Sure never stuff was half so bad!
"That like a pig !"'—each cry'd in scoff,
"Pshaw Nonsense! blockhead! Off! Off! Off!"
The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse
Was hiss'd, and catcall'd from the house.
"Soft ye, a word before I go,”

Quoth honest Hodge-and, stooping low
Produc'd the pig, and thus aloud
Bespoke the stupid partial croud:

"Behold, and learn from this poor creature,
How much you critics know of Nature."

BALLADS.

SWEET WILLIAM.

BALLAD I

By a prattling stream, on a Midsummer's eve, Where the woodbine and jess'mine their boughs interweave,

"Fair Flora," I cry'd, "to my harbour repair, For I must have a chaplet for sweet William's

hair."

She brought me the vi'let that grows on the bill,
The vale-dwelling lily, and gilded jonquill:
But such languid odours how cou'd I approve,
Just warm from the lips of the lad that I love.
She brought me, his faith and his truth to dis-
The undying myrtle, and ever-green bay : [play,

But why these to me, who've his constancy known?

And Billy has laurels enough of his own.
The next was the gift that I could not contemn,
For she brought me two roses that grew on a stem:
Of the dear nuptial tie they stood emblems confest,
So I kiss'd 'em, and press'd 'em quite close to
my breast.

She brought me a sun-flow'r-"This, fair one's your due;

For it once was a maiden, and love-sick like you:"| Oh! give it me quick, to my shepherd I'll run, As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the Sun.

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My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold:
Pl throw down my pipe, and neglect all my
flocks,

And will sing to my lass with the golden locks. Though o'er her white forchead the gilt tresses flow, Like the rays of the Sun on a hillock of snow; Such painters of old drew the queen of the fair, 'Tis the taste of the ancients, 'tis classical hair: And though witlings may scoff, and though raillery mocks,

Yet I'll sing to my lass with the golden locks.
To live and to love, to converse and be free,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kisses and rhyme,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time;
A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.
Than the swan in the brook she's more dear to my
sight,
Her mien is more stately, her breast is more white,
Her sweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,
They are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the Park in the Mali, at the play in the box,
My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.
Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow,
Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my
woe;
[soft pain;
She shall ease my fond heart, and shall sooth my
While thousands of rivals are sighing in vain ;
Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like
the fox,

While I have the lass with the golden locks.

And sing with more than usual glee
To Nancy, who was born for me.
Tell the blithe Graces as they bound
Luxuriant in the buxom round;
They're not more elegantly free,
Than Nancy, who was born for me.
Tell royal Venus, though she rove,
The queen of the immortal grove;
That she must share her golden fee
With Nancy, who was born for me.
Tell Pallas, though th' Athenian school,
And ev'ry trite pedantic fool,
On her to place the palm agree,
Tis Nancy's, who was born for ine.
Tell spotless Dian, though she range,
The regent of the up-land grange,
In chastity she yields to thee,
O, Nancy, who wast born for me.
Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove,
With all the pow'rs of life and love,
That I'd disdain to breathe or be,
If Nancy was not born for me.

THE DECISION.
BALLAD IV.

MY FLORIO, wildest of his sex,
(Who sure the veriest saint would vex)

From beauty roves to beauty;
Yet, though abroad the wanton roam,
Whene'er he deigus to stay at home,
He always minds his duty.
Something to every charming she,
In thoughtless prodigality,

To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,
He's granting still and granting;
And every madam, every miss;

Yet I find nothing wanting.
If haply I his will displease,
Tempestuous as th' autumnal seas
He foams and rages ever;
But when he ceases from his ire,
I cry, "Such spirit, and such fire,
Is surely wond'rous clever."

I ne'er want reason to complain;
But sweet is pleasure after pain,

And every joy grows greater.
Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell,
I should not like him half so well,
If I cou'd make him better.

ON MY WIFE'S BIRTH-DAY.

BALLAD III.

'Tis Nancy's birth-day-raise your strains, Ye nymphs of the Parnassian plains,

FROM

THE TALKATIVE FAIR.
BALLAD V.

ROM morn to night, from day to day
At all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease.

Forbear, my Celia, oh! forbear,
If your own health, or ours you prize;
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing than your eyes,
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,
Your fame's by your own noise obscur'd.
All are distracted while they gaze;
But if they listen they are cur'd.

Your silence would acquire more praise,
Than all you say, or all I write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
'Then hush-and be an angel quite.

THE SILENT FAIR,
BALLAD VI.

FROM all her fair loquacious kind,
So different is my Rosalind,
That not one accent can I gain
To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain.
Ye lovers, who can construe sighs,
And are the interpreters of eyes,
To language all her looks translate,
And in her gestures read my fate.
And if in them you chance to find
Aught that is gentle, aught that's kind,
Adieu mean hopes of being great,
And all the littleness of state.
All thoughts of grandeur I'll despise,
Which from dependence take their rise;
To serve her shall be my employ,
And love's sweet agony my joy.

THE FORCE OF INNOCENCE.
TO MISS C****
BALLAD VII.

THE blooming damsel, whose defence
Is adamantine innocence,
Requires no guardian to attend
Her steps, for Modesty's her friend:
Though her fair arms are weak to wield
The glitt'ring spear, and massy shield;
Yet safe from force and fraud combin'd,
She is an Amazon in mind.

With this artillery she goes,
Not only 'mongst the harmless beaux;
But e'en unhurt and undismay'd,
Views the long sword and fierce cockade,
Though all a syren as she talks,
And all a goddess as she walks,
Yet decency each action guides,
And wisdom o'er her tongue presides.
Place her in Russia's showery plains,
Where a perpetual winter reigns,
The elements may rave and range,
Yet her fix'd mind will never change.
Place her, Ambition, in thy tow'rs,
'Mongst the more dang'rous golden show'rs,
E'en there she'd spurn the venal tribe,
And fold her arms against the bribe.

Leave her, defenceless and alone,
A pris'ner in the torrid zone,
The sunshine there might vainly vie
With the bright lustre of her eye;
But Phoebus' self, with all his fire,
Cou'd ne'er one unchaste thought inspire;
But virtue's path she'd still pursue,
And still, my fair, wou'd copy you.

OF

THE DISTRESSED DAMSEL.

BALLAD VIII,

ALL my experience how vast the amount,
Since fifteen long winters I fairly can count !
Was ever a damsel so sadly betray'd,

To live to these years and yet still be a maid?
Ye heroes, triumphant by land and by sea,
Sworn vot'ries to love, but unmindful of me;
You can storm a strong fort, or can form a
blockade,

Yet ye stand by like dastards, and see me a maid.

Ye lawyers so just, who with slippery tongue, Can do what you please, or with right, or with wrong

Can it be or by law or by equity said,
That a buxom young girl ought to die an old

maid.

Ye learned physicians, whose excellent skill
Can save, or demolish, can cure, or can kill,
To a poor, forlorn damsel contribute your aid,
Who is sick-very sick-of remaining a maid,
Ye fops, I invoke, not to list to my song,
Who answer no end-and to no sex belong;
Ye echoes of echoes, and shadows of shade-
For if I had you-I might still be a maid,

THE FAIR RECLUSE,
BALLAD IX.

YE ancient patriarchs of the wood,
That veil around these awful glooms,
Who many a century have stood

In verdant age, that ever blooms.
Ye Gothic tow'rs by vapours dense.
Obscur'd into severer state,

In pastoral magnificence

At once so simple and so great. Why all your jealous shades on me, Ye hoary elders, do ye spread ? Fair innocence shou'd still be free,

Nought shou'd be chain'd, but what we dread.

Say, must these tears for ever flow?

Can I from patience learn content,
While solitude still nurses woe,

And leaves me leisure to lament.
My guardian see!-who wards off peace,
Whose cruelty is his employ,
Who bids the tongue of transport cease
And stops each avenue to joy.

Freedom of air alone is giv'n,

To aggravate, nor sooth my grief, To view th' immensely-distant Heav'n, My nearest prospect of relief.

TO MISS *

ONE OF THE CHICHESTER GRACES.

Written in Goodwood Gardens, September, 1750.
BALLAD X.

"YE HILLS that overlook the plains,
Where wealth and Gothic greatness reigns,
Where Nature's hand by Art is check'd,
And Taste herself is architect;
Ye fallows gray, ye forests brown,

And seas that the vast prospect crown,
Ye fright the soul with Fancy's store,
Nor can she one idea more!"

I said when dearest of her kind
(Her form, the picture of her mind)
Chloris approach'd-The landscape flew!
All nature vanish'd from my view!
She seem'd all nature to comprize,

Her lips! her beauteous breasts! her eyes!
That rous'd, and yet abash'd desire,
With liquid, languid, living fire!

But then-her voice!-how fram'd t' endear!
The music of the gods to hear!
Wit that so pierc'd, without offence,
So brac'd by the strong nerves of sense!
Pallas with Venus play'd her part,
To rob me of an honest heart;
Prudence and passion jointly strove,
And reason was th' ally of love.
Ah me! thou sweet, delicious maid,
From whence shall I solicit aid?
Hope and despair alike destroy,
One kills with grief, and one with joy.
Celestial Chloris! Nymph divine!
To save me, the dear task be thine.
Though conquest be the woman's care,
The angel's glory is to spare.

LOVELY HARRIOT.

A CRAMBO BALLAD.
* BALLAD XI.

GREAT Phoebus in his vast career,
Who forms the self succeeding year,
Thron'd in his amber chariot;

Sees not an object half so bright,

Nor gives such joy, such life, such light,
As dear delicious Harriot.

Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,
Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not burns,

Read Malebranche, Boyle and Marriot;

I scorn their philosophic strife,
And study nature from the life,

(Where most she shines) in Harriot.

When she admits another wooer,

I rave like Shakespeare's jealous Moor,

And am as raging Barry hot.
True, virtuous, lovely, was his dove,
But virtue, beauty, truth and love,
Are other names for Harriot.
Ye factious members who oppose,
And tire both houses with your prose,

Though never can you carry aught;
You might command the nation's sense,
And without bribery convince,

Had ye the voice of Harriot.
You of the music common weal,
Who borrow, beg, compose, or steal,
Cantata, air, or ariet;

You'd burn your cumb'rous works in score,
And sing, compose, and play no more,
If once you heard my Harriot.
Were there a wretch who dar'd essay,
Such wond'rous sweetness to betray,
I'd call him an Iscariot;
But her e'en satire can't annoy,
So strictly chaste, but kindly coy,
Is fair angelic Harriot.
While sultans, emperors, and kings,
(Mean appetite of earthly things)
In all the waste of war riot;
Love's softer duel be my aim,
Praise, honour, glory, conquest, fame,
Are center'd all in Harriot.

I swear by Hymen and the pow'rs
That haunt love's ever blushing bow'rs,

So sweet a nymph to marry ought:
Then may I hug her silken yoke,
And give the last, the final stroke,
T'accomplish lovely Harriot.

TO JENNY GRAY,
BALLAD XII.

BRING, Phoebus, from Parnassian bow'rs,

A chaplet of poetic flowers,

That far outbloom the May;

Bring verse so smooth, and thoughts so free, And all the Muses heraldry,

To blazon Jenny Gray.

Observe yon almond's rich perfume,
Presenting Spring with early bloom,
In ruddy tints how gay!
Thus, foremost of the blushing fair,
With such a blithsome, buxom air,
Blooms lovely Jenny Gray.
The merry, chirping, plumy throng,
The bushes and the twigs among
That pipe the sylvan lay,
All hush'd at her delightful voice
In silent ecstacy rejoice,

And study Jenny Gray.

Ye balmy odour-breathing gales,
That lightly sweep the green rob'd vales,
And in each rose-bush play;

I know you all, you're arrant cheats,
And steal your more than natural sweets,
From lovely Jenny Gray.

Pomona and that goddess bright,
The florist's and the maids delight,

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