Who thinks that from the speaker's chair
The ferjeant's mace can keep off care,
Is wond'roufly mistaken.
Alas he is not half fo bleft
As those who've liberty and reft,
And dine on beans and bacon.
Why should we then to London run,
And quit our cheerful country fun,
For London, din, and smoak?
Can we, by changing place and air,
Ourselves get rid of, or our care?
In truth 'tis all a joke.
Care climbs proud fhips of mightiest force,
And mounts behind the gen'ral's horse;
Outtrips huffars and pandours ;
Far fwifter than the flying hind,
Swifter than clouds before the wind,
Or Cope before th' Highlanders.
A man, when once he's fafely chose,
Should laugh at all his threat'ning foes,
Nor think of future evil.
Each good has its attending ill;
A feat is no bad thing, but still
Elections are the devil.
Its gifts, with hand impartial, heav'n
Divides: to Orford it was giv'n
To die in full-blown glory :
To Bath, indeed, a longer life;
But tho' he lives, 'tis with his wife,
And fhunn'd by whig and tory †.
The gods to you with bounteous hand,
Have granted feats, and parks, and land
Brocades and filks you wear;
With claret and ragouts you treat;
Six neighing fteeds with nimble feet
Whirl on your gilded car.
To me they've given a small retreat,
Good port, and mutton, best of meat!
With broad-cloth on my fhoulders;
A foul that fcorns a dirty job ‡,
Loves a good rhime, and hates the mob
I mean, that a'n't freeholders.
Mr. Soame Jenyns has been a lord of trade under the feveral administrations of Mr. Pitt, lord Bute, Mr. Grenville, lord Rockingham, and the duke of Grafton, who have all pursued different measures.
THE ORIGIN OF THE LADY'S FAN.
A SHORT POETICAL ARCADIAN FICTION.
NCE in Arcadia, that fam'd feat of love,
There liv'd a nymph, the pride of all the
A lovely nymph, adorn'd with ev'ry grace,
An easy shape, and sweetly blooming face ;
Fanny, the damfel's name, as chaste, as fair,
Each virgin's envy, and each swain's despair;
To charm her ear the rival fhepherds fing,
Blow the foft flute, and wake the trembling ftring;
For her they leave their wand'ring flocks to rove,
Whilft Fanny's name refounds thro' ev'ry grove.
'Twas when the fummer's fun, now mounted
With fiercer beams had fcorch'd the glowing sky,
Beneath the covert of a cooling fhade,
To fhun the heat this lovely nymph was laid;
The fultry weather o'er her cheeks had spread
A blush that added to their native red;
And her fair breaft, as polifh'd marble white,
Was half conceal'd, and half expos'd to fight :
Eolus, the mighty god, whom winds obey,
Obferv'd the beauteous maid as thus fhe lay;
K4
O'er all her charms he gaz'd with fond delight,
And fuck'd in poifon at the dang'rous fight:-
He fighs! he burns! at laft declares his pain!
But ftill he fighs, and still he burns in vain!
The cruel nymph regardless of his moan,
Minds not his flame, uneafy with her own;
But ftill complains that he who rul'd the air,
Would not command one zephyr to repair
Around her face, nor gentle breeze to play
Through the dark glade to cool the sultry day,
By love incited, and the hopes of joy,
Th'ingenious god contriv'd this pretty toy,
With gales inceffant to relieve her flame,
And call'd it Fan from lovely Fanny's name,
FROM MARTIAL. L. VII. EP. IO.
SERTORIUS drinks, you fay, till morning
What that to thee, good Jeff, who fnore all night?
Then, Lupus, owes as much as any lord:
What's that to thee who never took his word?
But points that touch you, and in which you fail,
With care, and fkill, and tenderness you veil :
Unpaid, tho' old and threadbare is thy coat,
No mortal now would truft thee with a groat,
Yet points there are which still concern thee more,
That honeft rib of thine thy wife's a whore :
Portion thy daughter foon, or, on my life,
The girl's a mother ere fhe be a wife.
Nay, I could whisper, Jeffrey, in thy ear,
A hundred things that touch thee full as near;
But, as I said juft now, what touches thee,
In honest conscience, Jeff, regards not me.
J. BERRINGTON.
THE open heart, the polish'd mind,
The manners, gentle, kind, and free,
The easy wit, the fenfe refin'd,
The native fenfibility.
But ah, why thus the lofs renew,
Why thus recount her virtues o'er?
Painful the retrofpective view,
Of charms we must behold no more.
This lady was the wife of a clergyman in Somersetfhire, the
had been married about a year, and died in childbed.
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