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;

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.

THE LASS WITH THE GOLDEN

LOCKS. "

BALLAD II.

No more of my Harriot, of Polly no more, Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me before;

My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,

And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold: I'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my

flocks,

And will sing to my lass with the golden locks.
Though o'er her white forehead 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 rail-

lery 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 tig 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 Mall, 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
[soft pain;
She shall ease my fond heart, and shall sooth my
While thousands of rivals are sighing in vain ;
Let the rail at the fruit they can't reach, like
the fox,

woe;

While I have the lass with the golden locks.

And ev'ry trite pedantic fool,
On her to place the palm agree,
Tis Nancy's, who was born for me.
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)
Yet, though abroad the wanton roam,
From beauty roves to beauty;
Whene'er he deigns 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 IL

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

THE TALKATIVE FAIR.
BALLAD V

FROM 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.

THE DISTRESSED DAMSEL.
BALLAD VIII.

OF 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 à 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.

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,

In vain their charms display; The luscious nectarine, juicy peach, In richness, nor in sweetness reach The lips of Jenny Gray.

To the sweet knot of Graces three,
Th' immortal band of bards agree,
A tuneful tax to pay;

There yet remains a matchless worth,
There yet remains a lovelier fourth,
And she is Jenny Gray.

TO MİSS KITTY BENNET,

AND

HER CAT CROP.

BALLAD XIII.

FULL many a heart, that now is free,
May shortly, fair one, beat for thee,

And court thy pleasing chain;
Then prudent hear a friend's advice,
And learn to guard, by conduct nice,

The conquests you shall gain.
When Tabby Tom your Crop pursues,
How many a bite, and many a bruise
The amorous swain endures?
E'er yet one favouring glance he catch,
What frequent squalls, how many a scratch
His tenderness procures?

Tho' this, 'tis own'd, be somewhat rude,
And Puss by nature be a prude,

Yet hence you may improve,
By decent pride, and dint of scoff,
Keep caterwauling coxcombs off,

And ward th' attacks of love. Your Crop a mousing when you see, She teaches you economy,

Which makes the pot to boil: And when she plays with what she gains, She shows you pleasure springs from pains, And mirth's the fruit of tuil.

MITRE.

BALLAD XIV.

Written at College, 1741,

"RELAX, Sweet girl, your wearied mind, And to hear the poet talk, Gentlest creature of your kind,

Lay aside your sponge and chalk; Cease, cease the bar-bell, nor refuse To hear the jingle of the Muse.

"Hear your numerous vot'ries prayers, Come, O come, and bring with thee Giddy whimsies, wanton airs,

And all love's soft artillery;
Smiles and throbs, and frowns, and tears.
With all the little hopes and fears."

She heard-she came—and e'er she spoke,
Not unravish'd you might see
Her wanton eyes that wink'd the joke,
E'er her tongue could set it free.

While a forc'd blush her checks inflam'd,
And seem'd to say she was asham'd.
No handkerchief her bosom hid,

No tippet from our sight debars
Her heaving breasts with moles o'erspread,
Mark'd, little hemispheres, with stars;
While on them all our eyes we move,
Our eyes that meant immoderate love.
In every gesture, every air,

Th' imperfect lisp, the languid eye,
In every motion of the fair

We awkward imitators vie,
And, forming our own from her face,
Strive to look pretty as we gaze.

If e'er she sneer'd, the mimic crowd
Sneer'd too, and all their pipes laid down;
If she but stoop'd, we lowly bow'd,
And sullen if she 'gan to frown
In solemn silence sat profound-
But did she laugh!-the laugh went round.
Her snuff-box if the nymph pull'd out,
Each Johnian in responsive airs
Fed with the tickling dust his snout,
With all the politesse of bears.
Dropt she her fan beneath her hoop,
Ev'n stake-stuck Clarians strove to stoop.
The sons of culinary Kays

Smoking from the eternal treat,

Lost in ecstatic transport gaze.

As though the fair was good to eat ; Ev'n gloomiest king's men, pleas'd awhile, "Grin horribly a ghastly smile."

But hark, she cries, "My mamma calls," And straight she's vanish'd from our sight;

'Twas then we saw the empty bowls,

"Twas then we first perceiv'd it night; While all, sad synod, silent moan, Both that she went-and went alone.

RECITATIVE.

She said:-A youth approach'd of manly grace,
A son of Mars, and of th' Hibernian race :-
In flow'ry rhetoric he no time employ'd,
He came―he woo'd-he wedded and enjoy'd.

AIR.

Dido thus of old protested,

Ne'er to know a second flame, But alas! she found she jested,

When the stately Trojan came. Nature a disguise may borrow,

Yet this maxim true will prove, Spite of pride, and spite of sorrow,

She that has an heart must love. What on Earth is so enchanting

As beauty weeping on her weeds! Through flowing eyes, on bosom panting What a rapturous ray proceeds? Since from death there's no returning, When th' old lover bids adieu, All the pomp and farce of mourning Are but signals for a new.

EPISTLE TO MRS. TYLER.

Ir ever was allow'd, dear madam,
Ev'n from the days of father Adam,
Of all perfection flesh is heir to,
Fair patience is the gentlest virtue;
This is a truth our grandames teach,
Our poets sing, and parsons preach;
Yet after all, dear Moll, the fact is
We seldom put it into practice;
I'll warrant (if one knew the truth)
You've call'd me many an idle youth,
And styled me rude ungrateful bear,
Enough to make a parson swear.

I shall not make a long oration
In order for my vindication,
For what the plague can I say more
Than lazy dogs have done before;
Such stuff is nought but mere tautology,
And so take that for my apology.
First then for custards, my dear Mary,
The produce of your dainty dairy,
For stew'd, for bak'd, for boil'd, for roast,
And all the teas and all the toast;
With thankful tongue and bowing attitude,
I bere present you with my gratitude:
Next for your apples, pears and plumbs
Acknowledgment in order comes;
For wine, for ale, for fowl, for fish-for
Ev'n all one's appetite can wish for:
But O ye pens, and O ye pencils,
And all ye scribbling utensils,
Say in what words and in what metre,
Shall unfeign'd admiration greet her,
For that rich banquet so refin'd
Her conversation gave the mind;
The solid meal of sense and worth,

Set off by the desert of mirth;

Wit's fruit and pleasure's genial bowl,
And all the joyous flow of soul;
For these, and every kind ingredient

That form'd your love-your most obedient.

TO THE REV. MR. POWELL,

ON THE NON-PERFORMANCE OF A PROMISE HE
MADE THE AUTHOR OF A HARE.

FRIEND, with regard to this same hare,
Am I to hope, or to despair?

By punctual post the letter came,
With P***ll's hand, and P***ll's name :
Yet there appear'd, for love or money,
Nor hare, nor leveret, nor coney.
Say, my dear Morgan, has my lord,
Like other great ones kept his word?
Or have you been deceiv'd by 'squire?
Or has your poacher lost his wire?
Or in some unpropitious hole,
Instead of puss, trepann'd a mole?
Thou valiant son of great Cadwallader,
Hast thou a hare, or hast thou swallow'd her?
But, now, methinks, I hear you say,
(And shake your head) "Ah, well-a-day!
Painful pre-em'nence to be wise,

We wits have such short memories.
Oh, that the act was not in force!
A horse!-my kingdom for a horse!
To love-yet be deny'd the sport!
Oh! for a friend or two at court!
God knows, there's scarce a man of quality
In all our peerless principality-"

But hold-for on his country joking,
To a warm Welchman's most provoking.
As for poor puss, upon my honour,

I never set my heart upon her.
But any gift from friend to friend,
Is pleasing in it's aim and end.

I, like the cock, wou'd spurn a jewel,
Sent by th' unkind, th' unjust, and cruel.
But honest P***]] !. -Sure from him
A barley-corn wou'd be a gem.
Pleas'd therefore had I been, and proud,
And prais'd thy generous heart aloud,
If 'stead of hare (but do not blab it)
You'd send me only a Welch-rabbit.

THE SICK MONKEY.
EPIGRAM I.

A LADY sent lately for one doctor Drug,
To come in an instant, and clyster poor Pug-
As the fair one commanded he came at the word,
And did the grand office in tie-wig and sword.
The affair being ended, so sweet and so nice!
He held out his hand with "You-know, ma'am,
my price."
[your brother,
"Your price," says the lady-" Why, Sir, he's
And doctors must never take fees of each other."