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Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song: A tale should never be too long.

The more he talk'd, the more she burn'd, And sigh'd, and tost, and groan'd, and turn'd: At last, I wish, said she, my dear(And whisper'd something in his ear) You wish! wish on, the doctor cries: Lord! when will womankind be wise? What, in your waters? Are you mad? Why poison is not half so bad. I'll do it but I give you warning: You'll die before to-morrow morning.'Tis kind, my dear, what you advise ; The lady with a sigh replies; But life, you know, at best is pain; And death is what we should disdain. So do it therefore, and adieu : For I will die for love of you.— Let wanton wives by death be scar'd: But, to my comfort, I'm prepar'd.


As Nancy at her toilet sat,
Admiring this, and blaming that,
Tell me, she said; but tell me true;

The nymph who could your heart subdue,
What sort of charms does she possess?
Absolve me, fair one; I'll confess
With pleasure, I reply'd. Her hair,
In ringlets rather dark than fair,
Does down her ivory bosom roll,
And, hiding half, adorns the whole.
In her high forehead's fair half round
Love sits in open triumph crown'd;
He in the dimple of her chin,
In private state, by friends is seen.
Her eyes are neither black nor gray;
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray:
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes, nor no.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,

May say, how red, how round, how sweet:
Old Homer only could indite
Their vagrant grace and soft delight:
They stand recorded in his book,
When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spoke-
The gipsy, turning to her glass,
Too plainly show'd she knew the face;
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid?


To the tune of King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. 1715.

I SING not old Jason, who travell'd through Greece,
To kiss the fair maids, and possess the rich fleece;
Nor sing I Æneas, who led by his mother,
Got rid of one wife, and went far for another,

Derry down, down, hey derry down.

Nor him who through Asia and Europe did roam, Ulysses by name, who ne'er cry'd to go home, But rather desir'd to see cities and men,

Than return to his farms, and converse with old Pen.

Hang Homer and Virgil! their meaning to seek, A man must have pok'd into Latin and Greek; Those who love their own tongue, we have reason to hope,

Have read them translated by Dryden and Pope.

But I sing of exploits that have lately been done By two British heroes, call'd Matthew and John; And how they rid friendly from fine London town, Fair Essex to see, and a place they call Down.

Now ere they went out you may rightly suppose How much they discours'd both in prudence and prose; For, before this great journey was throughly concerted,

Full often they met, and as often they parted.

And thus Matthew said, Look you here, my friend

I fairly have travell'd years thirty and one;
And, though I still carry'd my sovereign's warrants,
I only have gone upon other folks' errands.

And now in this journey of life I would have
A place where to bait, 'twixt the court and the grave;
Where joyful to live, not unwilling to die-
Gadzooks! I have just such a place in my eye.

There are gardens so stately, and arbours so thick, A portal of stone, and a fabric of brick:

The matter next week shall be all in your power; But the money, gadzooks! must be paid in an hour.

For things in this world must by law be made certain:

We both must repair unto Oliver Martin;

For he is a lawyer of worthy renown,

I'll bring you to see: he must fix you at Down.

Quoth Matthew, I know, that, from Berwick to Dover,

You've sold all our premises over and over:

And now, if your buyers and sellers agree,
You may throw all our acres into the South Sea.

But a word to the purpose: to-morrow, dear friend,
We'll see what to-night you so highly commend;
And if with a garden and house I am blest,
Let the devil and Coningsby go with the rest.

Then answer'd 'Squire Morley, Pray, get a calash, That in summer may burn, and in winter may splash; I love dirt and dust; and 'tis always my pleasure To take with me much of the soil that I measure.

But Matthew thought better; for Matthew thought right,

And hired a chariot so trim and so tight,

That extremes both of winter and summer might

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Draw up, quoth friend Matthew; pull down, quoth friend John,

We shall be both hotter and colder anon,
Thus, talking and scolding, they forward did speed;
And Rolpho pac'd by, under Newman the Swede.

Into an old inn did this equipage roll,

At a town they call Hoddesdon, the sign of the bull, Near a nymph with an urn that divides the highway, And into a puddle throws mother of tea.

Come here, my sweet landlady, pray how d'ye do? Where is Cicily so cleanly, and Prudence, and Sue? And where is the widow that dwelt here below? And the hostler that sung about eight years ago?

And where is your sister, so mild and so dear? Whose voice to her maids like a trumpet was clear? By my troth! she replies, you grow younger, I think: And pray, sir, what wine does the gentleman drink?

Why now let me die, sir, or live upon trust, If I know to which question to answer you first! Why things, since I saw you, most strangely have vary'd,

The hostler is hang'd, and the widow is marry'd.

And Prue left a child for the parish to nurse: And Cicely went off with a gentleman's purse; And as to my sister, so mild and so dear, She has lain in the churchyard full many a year.

Well, peace to her ashes! what signifies grief? She roasted red veal, and she powder'd lean beef: Full nicely she knew to cook up a fine dish; For tough were her pullets, and tender her fish.

For that matter, sir, be you 'squire, knight, or lord,

I'll give you whate'er a good inn can afford:
I should look on myself as unhappily sped,
Did I yield to a sister, or living or dead.

Of mutton a delicate neck and a breast Shall swim in the water in which they were drest: And, because you great folks are with rarities taken, Addle-eggs shall be next course, toss'd up with rank bacon.

Then supper was serv'd, and the sheets they were laid,

And Morley most lovingly whisper'd the maid.
The maid! was she handsome? why truly so so:
But what Morley whisper'd we never shall know.

Then up rose these heroes as brisk as the sun, And their horses, like his, were prepared to run. Now when in the morning Matt ask'd for the score, John kindly had paid it the evening before.

Their breakfast so warm to be sure they did eat, A custom in travellers mighty discreet; And thus with great friendship and glee they went on, To find out the place you shall hear of anon, Call'd Down, down, hey derry down.

But what did they talk of from morning to noon? Why, of spots in the sun, and the man in the moon; Of the Czar's gentle temper, the stocks in the city, The wise men of Greece, and the secret committee.

So to Harlow they came; and, hey! where are you all?

Show us into the parlour, and mind when I call: Why, your maids have no motion, your men have no life;

Well, master, I hear you have bury'd your wife.

Come this very instant, take care to provide Tea, sugar, and toast, and a horse and a guide. Are the Harrisons here, both the old and the young? And where stands fair Down, the delight of my song?

O 'squire, to the grief of my heart I may say, I have bury'd two wives since you travell'd this way; And the Harrisons both may be presently here; And Down stands, I think, where it stood the last year.

Then Joan brought the tea-pot, and Caleb the toast, And the wine was froth'd out by the hand of mine host: But we clear'd our extempore banquet so fast, That the Harrisons both were forgot in the haste.

Now hey for Down-hall! for the guide he was got; The chariot was mounted; the horses did trot; The guide he did bring us a dozen miles round, But oh! all in vain, for no Down could be found.

O thou Popish guide, thou hast led us astray.
Says he, how the devil should I know the way?
I never yet travell'd this road in my life;
But Down lies on the left, I was told by my wife.

Thy wife, answer'd Matthew, when she went abroad, Ne'er told thee of half the by-ways she had trod : Perhaps she met friends, and brought pence to thy house,

But thou shalt go home without ever a sous.

What is this thing, Morley, and how can you mean it?

We have lost our estate here, before we have seen it.
Have patience, soft Morley in anger reply'd:
To find out our way, let us send off our guide.

O here I spy Down: cast your eye to the west, Where a windmill so stately stands plainly confess'd. On the west, reply'd Matthew, no windmill I find: As well thou may'st tell me, I see the west-wind.

Now pardon me, Morley, the windmill I spy, But, faithful Achates, no house is there nigh. Look again, says mild Morley; gadzooks! you are blind:

The mill stands before, and the house lies behind.

O, now a low ruin'd white shed I discern, Until'd and unglaz'd; I believe 'tis a barn. A barn! why you rave: 'tis a house for a 'squire, A justice of peace, or a knight of our shire.

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YE nymphs of Solyma! begin the song:
To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong.
The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades,
The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids,
Delight no more-O thou my voice inspire
Who touch'd Isaiah's hallow'd lips with fire!
Rapt into future times, the bard begun!
A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son!
From Jesse's root behold a branch arise,
Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies:
Th' Ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move,
And on its top descends the mystic Dove.

Ye Heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour,
And in soft silence shed the kindly shower!
The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid,
From storms a shelter, and from heat a shade.
All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail;
Returning Justice lift aloft her scale;

Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend,

And white-rob'd Innocence from Heaven descend.
Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn!
Oh, spring to light, auspicious babe, be born!
See, nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring,
With all the incense of the breathing spring:
See lofty Lebanon his head advance,
See nodding forests on the mountains dance:
See spicy clouds from lowly Sharon rise,
And Carmel's flowery top perfume the skies!
Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers;
Prepare the way! a God, a God appears!
A God, a God! the vocal hills reply,
The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity.
Lo, earth receives him from the bending skies;
Sink down, ye mountains; and ye valleys rise;

With heads declin'd, ye cedars homage pay;
Be smooth, ye rocks: ye rapid floods, give way!
The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold:
Hear him, ye deaf: and all ye blind, behold!
He from thick films shall purge the visual ray,
And on the sightless eye-ball pour the day:
"Tis he th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear,
And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear:
The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego,
And leap exulting like the bounding roe.
No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear;
From every face he wipes off every tear.
In adamantine chains shall death be bound,
And hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound.
As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care,
Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air;
Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs,
By day o'ersees them, and by night protects;
The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
Feeds from his hand and in his bosom warms;
Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage,
The promis'd father of the future age.
No more shall nation against nation rise,
Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes,
Nor fields with gleaming steel be cover'd o'er,
The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more:
But useless lances into scythes shall bend,
And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end.
Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son
Shall finish what his short-liv'd sire begun;
Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield,
And the same hand that sow'd, shall reap the field,
The swain in barren deserts with surprise
Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise;
And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds to hear

New falls of water murmuring in his ear.
On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes,
The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods.
Waste sandy valleys, once perplex'd with thorn,
The spiry fir and shapely box adorn:

To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed,
And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed.

The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead,
And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead:
The steer and lion at one crib shall meet,
And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet.
The smiling infant in his hand shall take
The crested basilisk and speckled snake;
Pleas'd, the green lustre of the scales survey,
And with their forky tongue shall innocently play.
Rise, crown'd with light, imperial Salem, rise!
Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes!
See a long race thy spacious courts adorn;
See future sons, and daughters yet unborn,
In crowding ranks on every side arise,
Demanding life, impatient for the skies!
See barbarous nations at thy gates atten
Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend;
See thy bright altars throng'd with prostrate kings,
And heap'd with products of Sabean springs.
For thee Idume's spicy forests blow,

And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow.
See Heaven its sparkling portals wide display,
And break upon thee in a flood of day!
No more the rising sun shall gild the morn,
Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn;
But lost, dissolv'd in thy superior rays,
One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze
O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine
Reveal'd, and God's eternal day be thine!
The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay,
Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away;
But fix'd his word, his saving power remains;
Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!


THY forests, Windsor! and thy green retreats, At once the monarch's and the Muse's seats, Invite my lays. Be present, sylvan maids! Unlock your springs, and open all your shades. Granville commands; your aid, O Muses, bring! What Muse for Granville can refuse to sing?

The groves of Eden, vanish'd now so long,
Live in description, and look green in song;
These, were my breast inspir'd with equal flame,
Like them in beauty, should be like in fame.
Here hills and vales, the woodland and the plain,
Here earth and water seem to strive again;
Not chaos-like together crush'd and bruis'd,
But, as the world, harmoniously confused;
Where order in variety we see,

And where, though all things differ, all agree.
Here waving groves a chequer'd scene display,
And part admit, and part exclude the day;
As some coy nymph her lover's warm address
Nor quite indulges, nor can quite repress.
There, interspers'd in lawns and opening glades,
Thin trees arise that shun each other's shades.

Here in full light the russet plains extend;
There, wrapt in clouds, the bluish hills ascend.
Ev'n the wild heath displays her purple dyes,
And 'midst the desert fruitful fields arise;
That, crown'd with tufted trees and springing corn,
Like verdant isles the sable waste adorn.
Let India boast her plants, nor envy we
The weeping amber, or the balmy tree,
While by our oaks the precious loads are borne,
And realms commanded which those trees adorn.
Nor proud Olympus yields a nobler sight,
Though gods assembled grace his towering height,
Than what more humble mountains offer here,
Where, in their blessings, all those gods appear.
See Pan with flocks, with fruits Pomona crown'd;
Here blushing Flora paints th' enamell'd ground;
Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand,
And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand;
Rich industry sits smiling on the plains,
And peace and plenty tell a Stuart reigns.
Not thus the land appear'd in ages past,
A dreary desert, and a gloomy waste,
To savage beasts and savage laws a prey,
And kings more furious and severe than they;
Who claim'd the skies, dispeopled air and floods,
The lonely lords of empty wilds and woods:
Cities laid waste, they storm'd the dens and caves
(For wiser brutes were backward to be slaves).
What could be free, when lawless beasts obey'd,
And ev'n the elements a tyrant sway'd?

In vain kind seasons swell'd the teeming grain,
Soft showers distill'd, and suns grew warm in vain;
The swain with tears his frustrate labour yields,
And famish'd dies amidst his ripen'd fields.
What wonder then, a beast or subject slain
Were equal crimes in a despotic reign?
Both, doom'd alike, for sportive tyrants bled;
But, that the subject starv'd, the beast was fed.
Proud Nimrod first the bloody chase began,
A mighty hunter, and his prey was man:
Our haughty Norman boasts that barbarous name,
And makes his trembling slaves the royal game.
The fields are ravish'd from th' industrious swains,
From men their cities, and from gods their fanes:
The levell'd towns with weeds lie cover'd o'er;
The hollow winds through naked temples roar;
Round broken columns clasping ivy twin'd;
O'er heaps of ruin stalk'd the stately hind;
The fox obscene to gaping tombs retires,
And savage howlings fill the sacred quires.
Aw'd by his nobles, by his commons curst,
Th' Oppressor rul'd tyrannic where he durst;
Stretch'd oler the poor and church his iron rod,
And serv'd alike his vassals and his God.
Whom ev'n the Saxon spar'd, and bloody Dane,
The wanton victims of his sport remain.
But see, the man who spacious regions gave
A waste for beasts, himself deny'd a grave!
Stretch'd on the lawn his second hope survey,
At once the chaser, and at once the prey:
Lo! Rufus, tugging at the deadly dart,
Bleeds in the forest like a wounded hart.
Succeeding monarchs heard the subjects' cries,
Nor saw displeas'd the peaceful cottage rise.
Then gathering flocks on unknown mountains fed,
O'er sandy wilds were yellow harvests spread;

The forests wonder'd at th' unusual grain,
And secret transport touch'd the conscious swain.
Fair Liberty, Britannia's goddess, rears
Her cheerful head, and leads the golden years.
Ye vigorous swains! while youth ferments your
And purer spirits swell the sprightly flood, [blood,
Now range the hills, the gameful woods beset,
Wind the shrill horn, or spread the waving net.
When milder autumn summer's heat succeeds,
And in the new-shorn field the partridge feeds;
Before his lord the ready spaniel bounds,
Panting with hope, he tries the furrow'd grounds;
But when the tainted gales the game betray,
Couch'd close he lies, and meditates the prey:
Secure the trust, th' unfaithful field beset,
Till hovering o'er them sweeps the swelling net.
Thus (if small things we may with great compare)
When Albion sends her eager sons to war,
Some thoughtless town, with ease and plenty blest,
Near and more near, the closing lines invest,
Sudden they seize th' amaz'd defenceless prize,
And high in air Britannia's standard flies.

See! from the brake the whirring pheasant springs,
And mounts exulting on triumphant wings:
Short is his joy; he feels the fiery wound,
Flutters in blood, and panting beats the ground.
Ah! what avail his glossy varying dyes,
His purple crest, and scarlet-circled eyes,
The vivid green his shining plumes unfold,

His painted wings, and breast that flames with gold?
Nor yet when moist Arcturus clouds the sky,
The woods and fields their pleasing toils deny.
To plains with well-breath'd beagles we repair,
And trace the mazes of the circling hare.
(Beasts, urg'd by us, their fellow beasts pursue,
And learn of man each other to undo).
With slaughtering guns th' unweary'd fowler roves,
When frosts have whiten'd all the naked groves;
Where doves in flocks the leafless trees o'ershade,
And lonely woodcocks haunt the watery glade.
He lifts the tube, and levels with his eye;
Straight a short thunder breaks the frozen sky:
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath,
The clamorous lapwings feel the leaden death;
Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare,
They fall, and leave their little lives in air.

In genial spring, beneath the quivering shade,
Where cooling vapours breathe along the mead,
The patient fisher takes his silent stand,
Intent, his angle trembling in his hand :
With looks unmov'd, he hopes the scaly breed,
And eyes the dancing cork and bending reed.
Our plenteous streams a various race supply;
The bright-ey'd perch, with fins of Tyrian dye,
The silver eel, in shining volumes roll'd,
The yellow carp, with scales bedropp'd with gold,
Swift trouts, diversified with crimson stains,
And pikes, the tyrants of the watery plains.

Now Cancer glows with Phoebus' fiery car:
The youth rush eager to the sylvan war,
Swarm o'er the lawns, the forest walks surround,
Rouse the fleet hart, and cheer the opening hound.
Th' impatient courser pants in every vein,
And, pawing, seems to beat the distant plain :
Hills, vales, and floods, appear already cross'd,
And, ere he starts, a thousand steps are lost.

See the bold youth strain up the threat'ning steep,
Rush through the thickets, down the valleys sweep,
Hang o'er their coursers' heads with eager speed,
And earth rolls back beneath the flying steed.
Let old Arcadia boast her ample plain,
Th' immortal huntress, and her virgin train;
Nor envy, Windsor! since thy shades have seen
As bright a goddess, and as chaste a queen;
Whose care, like hers, protects the sylvan reign,
The earth's fair light, and empress of the main.
Here too, 'tis sung, of old Diana stray'd,
And Cynthus' top forsook for Windsor shade;
Here was she seen o'er airy wastes to rove,
Seek the clear spring, or haunt the pathless grove;
Here arm'd with silver bows, in early dawn,
Her buskin'd virgins trac'd the dewy lawn.

Above the rest a rural nymph was fam'd, Thy offspring, Thames! the fair Lodona nam'd (Lodona's fate in long oblivion east,


The Muse shall sing, and what she sings shall last).
Scarce could the goddess from her nymphs be known,
But by the crescent and the golden zone.
She scorn'd the praise of beauty, and the care;
A belt her waist, a fillet binds her hair;
A painted quiver on her shoulder sounds,
And with her dart the flying deer she wounds.
It chanc'd, as eager of the chase, the maid
Beyond the forest's verdant limits stray'd,
Pan saw and lov'd, and burning with desire
Pursu'd her flight; her flight increas'd his fire.
Not half so swift the trembling doves can fly,
When the fierce eagle cleaves the liquid sky;
Not half so swiftly the fierce eagle moves,
When through the clouds he drives the trembling
As from the god she flew with furious pace,
Or as the god, more furious, urg'd the chase.
Now fainting, sinking, pale, the nymph appears;
Now close behind, his sounding steps she hears
And now his shadow reach'd her as she run,
His shadow lengthen'd by the setting sun;
And now his shorter breath, with sultry air.
Pants on her neck, and fans her parting hair.
In vain on father Thames she calls for aid,
Nor could Diana help her injur'd maid.
Faint, breathless, thus she pray'd, nor pray'd in vain;
"Ah, Cynthia! ah-though banish'd from thy train,
Let me, O let me, to the shades repair,

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My native shades!-there weep and murmur there!"
She said, and melting as in tears she lay,
In a soft silver stream dissolv'd away.
The silver stream her virgin coldness keeps,
For ever murmurs and for ever weeps;
Still bears the name the hapless virgin bore,
And bathes the forest where she rang'd before.
In her chaste current oft the goddess laves,
And with celestial tears augments the waves.
Oft in her glass the musing shepherd spies
The headlong mountains and the downward skies,
The watery landscape of the pendant woods,
And absent trees that tremble in the floods;
In the clear azure gleam the flocks are seen,
And floating forests paint the waves with green;
Through the fair scene roll slow the lingering streams,
Then foaming pour along, and rush unto the Thames.
Thou too, great father of the British floods!
With joyful pride survey'st our lofty woods;

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