Queen of the groves! her stately head she rears,
Her bulk increasing with increasing years:
Now moves in pomp, majestic, o'er the deep,
While in her womb ten thousand thunders sleep.
Hence Britain boasts her far-extended reign,
And by the expanded acorn rules the main.
INSCRIBED ON A STONE THAT COVERS HIS FATHER,
MOTHER, AND BROTHER'.
Ye sacred Spirits! while your friends distress'd
Weep o'er your ashes, and lament the bless'd;
O let the pensive Muse inscribe that stone,
And with the general sorrows mix her own:
The pensive Muse !-who, from this mournful hour,
Shall raise her voice, and wake the string no more!
Of love, of duty, this last pledge receive;
'Tis all a brother, all a son can give.
DEATH OF THE LATE EARL STANHOPE. HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO THE COUNTESS OF STANHOPE.
"At length, grim Fate, thy dreadful triumphs cease: Lock up the tomb, and seal the grave in peace."
Now from thy riot of destruction breathe,
Call in thy raging plagues, thou tyrant Death:
Too mean's the conquest which thy arms bestow,
Too mean to sweep a nation at a blow.
No, thy unbounded triumphs higher run,
And seem to strike at all mankind in one;
Since Stanhope is thy prey, the great, the brave,
A nobler prey was never paid the grave.
We seem to feel from this thy daring crime,
A blank in nature, and a pause in time.
He stood so high in reason's towering sphere,
As high as man unglorify'd could bear.
In arms, and eloquence, like Cæsar, shone
So bright, that each Minerva was his own,
How could so vast a fund of learning lie
Shut up in such a short mortality?
One world of science nobly travell'd o'er,
Like Philip's glorious son, he wept for more.
And now, resign'd to tears, th' angelic choirs,
With drooping heads, unstring their golden lyres,
Wrapt in a cloud of grief, they sigh to view
Their sacred image laid by Death so low:
And deep in anguish sunk, on Stanhope's fate,
Begin to doubt their own immortal state.
But hold, my Muse, thy mournful transport errs, Hold here, and listen to Lucinda's tears, While thy vain sorrows echo to his tomb, Behold a sight that strikes all sorrow dumb: Behold the partner of his cares and life, Bright in her tears, and beautiful in grief. Shall then in vain those streams of sorrow flow, Drest up in all the elegance of woe? And shall the kind officious Muse forbear
To answer sigh for sigh, and tell out tear for tear?
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Oh! no; at such a melancholy scene,
The poet echoes back her woes again.
Each weeping Muse should minister relief,
From all the moving eloquence of grief.
Each, like a Niobe, his fate bemoan,
Melt into tears, or harden into stone.
From dark obscurity his virtues save,
And, like pale specters, hover round his grave,
With them the marble should due measures
Relent at every sigh, at every accent weep.
Britannia mourn thy hero, nor refuse
To vent the sighs and sorrows with the Muse:
Oh let thy rising groans load every wind,
Nor let one sluggish accent lag behind.
Thy heavy fate with justice to deplore,
Convey a gale of sighs from shore to shore.
And thou, her guardian angel, widely spread
Thy golden wings, and shield the mighty dead.
Brood o'er his ashes, and illustrious dust,
And sooth with care the venerable ghost.
To guard the nobler relics, leave a while
The kind protection of thy favourite isle :
Around his silent tomb, thy station keep,
And, with thy sister-angel, learn to weep.
Ye sons of Albion, o'er your patriot mourn,
And cool with streams of tears his sacred urn.
His wondrous virtues, stretch'd to distant shores,
Demand all Europe's tears, as well as yours.
Nature can't bring in every period forth,
A finish'd hero of exalted worth,
Whose godlike genius, towering and sublime,
Must long lie ripening in the womb of time:
Before a Stanhope enters on the stage,
The birth of years, and labour of an age.
In field, and council, born the palm to share,
His voice a senate, as his sword a war:
And each illustrious action of his life,
Conspire to form the patriot, and the chief:
On either side, unite their blended rays,
And kindly mingle in a friendly blaze.
Stand out, and witness this, unhappy Spain,
Lift up to view the mountains of thy slain:
Tell how thy heroes yielded to their fear,
When Stanhope rouz'd the thunder of the war:
With what fierce tumults of severe delight
Th' impetuous hero plung'd into the fight.
How he the dreadful front of Death defac'd,
Pour'd on the foe, and laid the battle waste.
Did not his arm the ranks of war deform,
And point the hovering tumult where to storm?
Did not his sword through legions cleave bis way,
Break their dark squadrons, and let in the day?
Did not he lead the terrible attack,
Push Conquest on, and bring her bleeding back?
Throw wide the scenes of horrour and despair,
The tide of conflict, and the stream of war?
Bid yellow Tagus, who in triumph roll'd
Till then his turbid tides of foaming gold,
Boast his rich channels to the world no more,
Since all his glittering streams, and liquid ore,
Lie undistinguish'd in a flood of gore.
Bid his charg'd waves, and loaded billows sweep,
Thy slaughter'd thousands to the frighted deep.
Confess, fair Albion, how the listening throng
Dwelt on the moving accents of his tongue.
In the sage council seat him, and confess
Thy arm in war, thy oracle in peace:
How here triumphant too, his nervous sense
Bore off the palm of manly eloquence :
The healing balm to Albion's wounds apply'd,
And charm'd united factions to his side ·
Fix'd on his sovereign's head the nodding crown,
And propp'd the tottering basis of the throne,
Supported bravely all the nation's weight,
And stood the public Atlas of the state.
Sound the loud trumpet, let the solemn knell
Bid with due horrour his great soul farewel.
Tune every martial instrument with care,
At once wake all the harmony of war.
Let each sad hero in procession go,
And swell the vast solemnity of woe.
Neglect the yew, the mournful cypress leave,
And with fresh laurels strew the warrior's grave.
There they shall rise, in honour of his name,
Grow green with victory, and bloom with fame.
Lo! from his azure throne, old father Thames
Signs through his floods, and groans from all his
O'er his full urn he droops his reverend head,
And sinks down deeper in his oozy bed,
As the sad pomp proceeds along his sides,
O'ercharg'd with sorrow, pant his heaving tides.
Low in his humid palace laid to mourn,
With streams of tears, the god supplies his urn.
Within his channels he forgets to flow,
And pours o'er all his bounds the deluge of his woe.
But see, my Muse, if yet thy ravish'd sight
Can bear that blaze, that rushing stream of light;
Where the great hero's disencumber'd soul,
Springs from the Earth to reach her native pole.
Boldly she quits th' abandon'd cask of clay,
Freed from her chains, and towers th' ethereal
Soars o'er th' eternal funds of hail and snow, [way:
And leaves heaven's stormy magazines below.
Thence through the vast profound of heaven she
And measures all the concave of the skies: [flies,
Sees where the planetary worlds advance,
Orb above orb, and lead the starry dance.
Nor rests she there, but, with a bolder flight,
Explores the undiscover'd realms of light.
Where the fix'd orbs, to deck the spangled pole,
In state around their gaudy axles roll.
Thence his aspiring course in triumph steers,
Beyond the golden circles of the spheres ;
Into the Heaven of Heavens, the seat divine,
Where Nature never drew her mighty line.
A region that excludes all time and place,
And shuts creation from th' unbounded space :
Where the full tides of light in oceans flow,
And see the Sun ten thousand worlds below.
So far from our inferior orbs disjoin'd,
The tir'd imagination pants behind.
Then cease thy painful flight, nor venture more,
Where never Muse has stretch'd her wing before.
Thy pinions tempt immortal heights in vain,
That throw thee fluttering back to Earth again.
On Earth a while, blest shade, thy thoughts em-
And steal one moment from eternal joy.
While there, in Heaven, immortal songs inspire
Thy golden strings, and tremble on the lyre,
Which raise to nobler strains, th' angelic choir.
Look down with pity on a mortal's lays,
Who strives, in vain, to reach thy boundless praise:
Who with low verse profanes thy sacred name,
Lost in the spreading circle of thy fame.
Thy fame, which, like thyself, is mounted high,
Wide as thy Heaven, and lofty as thy sky.
And thou, his pious consort, here below,
Lavish of grief, and prodigal of woe:
Oh! choak thy griefs, thy rising sighs suppress,
Nor let thy sorrows violate his peace.
This rage of anguish, that disdains relief,
Dims his bright jovs, with some allay of grief.
Look on his dearest pledge he left behind,
And see how Nature, bountiful and kind,
Stamps the paternal image on his mind.
Oh! may th' hereditary virtues run
In fair succession, to adorn the son;
The last best hopes of Albion's realms to grace,
And form the hero worthy of his race:
Some means at last by Britain may be found,
To dry her tears, and close her bleeding wound.
And if the Muse through future times can see,
Fair youth, thy father shall revive in thee:
Thou shalt the wondering nation's hopes engage,
To rise the Stanhope of the future age.
THE LATE FAMOUS ASTRONOMER.
BENEATH this stone the world's just wonder lies,
Who, while on Earth, had rang'd the spacious skies;
Around the stars his active soul had flown,
And seen their courses finish'd ere his own:
Now he enjoys those realms he could explore,
And finds that Heaven he knew so well before.
He through more worlds his victory pursued
Than the brave Greek could wish to have subdued;
In triumph ran one vast creation o'er,
Then stodp'd,-for Nature could afford no more.
With Cæsar's speed, young Ammon's noble pride,
He came, saw, vanquish'd, wept, return'd, and died.
HORACE, BOOK II. EP. XIX.
AN EPISTLE TO MR. ROBERT LOWTH'.
"Tis said, dear sir, no poets please the town,
Who drink mere water, though from Helicon :
For in cold blood they seldom boldly think;
Their rhymes are more insipid than their drink.
Not great Apollo could the train inspire,
Till generous Bacchus help'd to fan the fire.
Warm'd by two gods at once they drink and write,
Rhyme all the day, and fuddle all the night.
Homer, says Horace, nods in many a place,
But hints, he nodded oftner o'er the glass,
Inspir'd with wine old Ennius sung and thought
With the same spirit, that his heroes fought :
And we from Jonson's tavern-laws divine,
That bard was no great enemy to wine.
'Twas from the bottle King derived his wit,
Drank till he could not talk, and then he writ.
Let no coif'd serjeant touch the sacred juice,
But leave it to the bards for better use:
Let the grave judges too the glass forbear,
Who never sing and dance but once a year.
Get drunk or mad, and then get into print :
This truth once known, our poets take the hint,
To raise their flames indulge the mellow fit,
And lose their senses in the seach of wit:
And when with claret fir'd they take the pen,
Swear thy can write, because they drink, like Ben.
Such mimic Swift or Prior to their cost, For in the rash attempt the fools are lost.
A soul, where depth of sense and fancy meet; A judgment brighten'd by the beams of wit,
When once a genius breaks through common rules, Were ever yours,-be what you were before,
He leads an herd of imitating fools.
If Pope, the prince of poets, sick a-bed,
O'er steaming coffee bends his aching head,
The fools in public o'er the fragrant draught
Incline those heads, that never ach'd or thought.
This must provoke his mirth or his disdain,
Cure his complaint,--or make him sick again.
Itoo, like them, the poet's path pursue,
And keep great Flaccus ever in my view;
But in a distant view-yet what I write,
In these loose sheets, must never see the light;
Epistles, odes, and twenty trifies more,
Things that are born and die in half an hour.
"What! you must dedicate," says sneering Spence,
"This year some new performance to the prince :
Though money is your scorn, no doubt in time,
You hope to gain some vacant stall by rhyme;
Like other poets, were the truth but known,
You too admire whatever is your own."
These wise remarks my modesty confound,
While the laugh rises, and the mirth goes round;
Vext at the jest, yet glad to shun a fray,
I whisk into my coach, and drive away.
PREFIXED TO THE ESSAY ON POPE'S ODYSSEY.
'Tis done-restor❜d by thy immortal pen,
The critic's noble name revives again;
Once more that great, that injur'd name we see
Shine forth alike in Addison and thee.
Like curs, our critics haunt the poet's feast,
And feed on scraps refus'd by every guest;
From the old Thracian dog' they learn'd the way
To snarl in want, and grumble o'er their prey.
As though they grudg'd themselves the joys they
feel,
Vex'd to be charm'd, and pleas'd against their will.
Such their inverted taste, that we expect
For faults their thanks, for beauties their neglect;
So the fell snake rejects the fragrant flowers,
But every poison of the field devours.
Like bold Longinus of immortal fame,
You read your poet with a poet's flame;
With his, your generous raptures still aspire;
The critic kindles when the bard's on fire.
But when some lame, some limping line demands
The friendly succour of your healing hands;
The feather of your pen drops balm around,
And plays, and tickles, while it cures the wound.
While Pope's immortal labour we survey,
We stand all dazzled with excess of day,
Blind with the glorious blaze;-to vulgar sight
'Twas one bright mass of undistinguish'd light;
But like the towering eagle, you alone
Discern'd the spots and splendours of the Sun.
To point out faults, yet never to offend:
To play the critic, yet preserve the friend;
A life well spent, that never lost a day;
An easy spirit, innocently gay;
A strict integrity, devoid of art;
The sweetest manners, and sincerest heart;
* Zoilus, so called by the ancients.
Be still yourself; the world can ask no more.
IMITATION OF SPENSER.
A well-known vase of sovereign use I sing,
Pleasing to young and old, and Jordan hight,
The lovely queen, and eke the haughty king
Snatch up this vessel in the murky night :
Ne lives there poor, ne lives there wealthy wight,
But uses it in mantle brown or green;
Sometimes it stands array'd in glossy white;
And eft in mighty dortours may be seen
Of China's fragile earth, with azure flowrets sheen.
The virgin, comely as the dewy rose,
Here gently sheds the softly-whispering rill;
The frannion, who ne shame ne blushing knows,
At once the potter's glossy vase does fill;
It whizzes like the waters from a mill.
Here frouzy housewives clear their loaded reins;
The beef-fed justice, who fat ale doth swill,
Grasps the round-handled jar, and tries, and
strains,
While slowly dribbling down the scanty water drains.
The dame of Fraunce shall without shame convey This ready needment to its proper place; Yet shall the daughters of the lond of Fay Learn better amenaunce and decent grace; Warm blushes lend a beauty to their face, For virtue's comely tints their cheeks adorn; Thus o'er the distant hillocks you may trace The purple beamings of the infant morn: Sweet are our blooming maids-the sweetest creatures born.
None but their husbands or their lovers true They trust with management of their affairs; Nor even these their privacy may view, When the soft bearys seek the bower by pairs: Then from the sight accoy'd, like timorous hares, From mate or bellamour alike they fly; [airs, Think not, good swain, that these are scornful Think not for hate they shun thine amorous eye, Soon shall the fair return, nor done thee youth, to dye.
While Belgic frows across a charcoal stove (Replenish'd like the Vestal's lasting fire) [love, Bren for whole years, and scorch'd the parts of No longer parts that can delight inspire, Erst cave of bliss, now monumental pyre ; O British maid, for ever clean and neat, From whom I aye will wake my simple lyre, With double care preserve that dun retreat, Fair Venus' mystic bower, Dan Cupid's feather'd
So may your hours soft-sliding steal away, Unknown to gnarring slander and to bale, O'er seas of bliss peace guide her gondelay, Ne bitter dole impest the passing gale. O! sweeter than the lilies of the dale, In your soft breasts the fruits of joyance grow. Ne fell despair be here with visage pale, Brave be the youth from whom your bosoms glow, Ne other joy but you the faithful striplings know.
EPISTLE TO J. PITT, ES2.
IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. IV. BOOK I.
To all my trifles you attend,
But drop the critic to indulge the friend,
And with most Christian patience lose your time,
To hear me preach, or pester you with rhyme.
Here with my books or friend I spend the day,
But how at Kingston pass your hours away?
Say, shall we see some plan with ravish'd eyes,
Some future pile in miniature arise?
(A model to excel in every part
Judicious Jones, or great Palladio's art)
Or some new bill, that, when the house is met,
Shall claim their thanks, and pay the nation's debt?
Or have you studied in the silent wood
The sacred duties of the wise and good?
Nature, who form'd you, nobly crown'd the whole
With a strong body, and as firm a soul:
The praise is yours to finish every part
With all th' embellishments of taste and art.
Some see in canker'd heaps their riches roll'd,
Your bounty gives new lustre to your gold.
Could your dead father hope a greater bliss,
Or your surviving parent more than this?
Than such a son-a lover of the laws,
And ever true to honour's glorious cause:
Who scorns all parties, though by parties sought:
Who greatly thinks, and truly speaks his thought:
With all the chaste severity of sense,
Truth, judgment, wit, and manly eloquence.
So in his youth great Cato was rever'd,
By Pompey courted, and by Cæsar fear'd:
Both he disdain'd alike with godlike pride,
For Rome and Liberty he liv'd-and dy'd.
In each perfection as you rise so fast,
Well may you think each day may be your last.
Uncommon worth is still with fate at strife,
Still inconsistent with a length of life.
The future time is ever in your power,
Then 'tis clear gain to seize the present hour;
Break from the serious thought, and laugh away
In Pimpern walls one idle easy day.
You'll find your rhyming kinsman well in case,
For ever fix'd to the delicious place.
Tho' not like L- with corpulence o'ergrown,
For he has twenty cures, and I but one.
EPISTLE TO MR. SPENCE.
IN IMITATION OF HORACE, EPIST. X. BOOK I.
HEALTH from the bard who loves the rural sport,
To the more noble bard that haunts the court:
In every other point of life we chime,
Like too soft lines when coupled into rhyme.
I praise a spacious villa to the sky,
You a close garret full five stories high;
I revel here in Nature's varied sweets,
You in the nobler scents of London streets.
I left the court, and here at ease reclin'd,
Am happier than the king who staid behind:
Twelve stifling dishes I could scarce live o'er,
At home I dine with luxury on four.
Where would a man of judgement chuse a seat,
But in a wholesome, rural, soft retreat,
Where hills adorn the mansion they defend?
Where could he better answer Nature's end?
Here from the sea the melting breezes rise,
Unbind the snow, and warm the wintry skies:
Here gentle gales the dog-star's heat allay,
And softly breathing cool the sultry day.
How free from cares, from dangers and affright,
In pleasing dreams I pass the silent night!
Does not the variegated marble yield
To the gay colours of the flowery field?
Can the New-river's artificial streams,
Or the thick waters of the troubled Thames,
In many a winding rusty pipe convey'd,
Or dash'd and broken down a deep cascade,
With our clear silver streams in sweetness vie,
That in eternal rills run bubbling by;
In dimples o'er the polish'd pebbles pass,
Glide o'er the sands, or glitter through the grass?
And yet in town the country prospects please,
Where stately colonades are flank'd with trees:
On a whole country looks the master down
With pride, where scarce five acres are his own.
Yet Nature, though repell'd, maintains her part,
And in her turn she triumphs over art;
The hand-maid now may prejudice our taste,
But the fair mistress will prevail at last.
That man must smart at last whose puzzled sight
Mistakes in life false colours for the right;
As the poor dupe is sure his loss to rue,
The wretch, whose frantic pride kind Fortune
Who takes a Pinchbeck guinea for a true. [crowns,
Grows twice as abject when the goddess frowns;
As he, who rises when his head turns round,
Must tumble twice as heavy to the ground.
Then love not grandeur, 'tis a splendid curse;
The more the love, the harder the divorce.
We live far happier by these gurgling springs,
Than statesmen, courtiers, counsellors, or kings.
The stag expell'd the courser from the plain;
What can he do?-he begs the aid of man ;
He takes the bit and proudly bears away
His new ally; he fights and wins the day:
But, ruin'd by success, he strives in vain
To quit his master and the curb again.
So from the fear of want most wretches fly,
But lose their noblest wealth, their liberty;
To their imperious passions they submit,
Who mount, ride, spur, but never draw the bit.
'Tis with your fortune, Spence, as with your shoe,
A large may wrench, a small one wring your toe.
Then bear your fortune in the golden mean,
Not every man is born to be a dean.
I'll bear your jeers, if ever I am known
To seek two cures, when scarce I merit one,
Riches, 'tis true, some service may afford,
But oftner play the tyrant o'er their lord.
Money I scorn, but keep a little still,
To pay my doctor's, or my lawyer's bill.
From Encombe's soft romantic scenes I write,
Deep sunk in ease, in pleasure and delight ;
Yet, though her gen'rous lord himself is here,
'Twould be one pleasure more, could you appear.
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Soon as the Sun the face of Nature gilds, For health and pleasure will we range the fields; O'er her gay scenes and opening beauties run, While all the vast creation is our own. But when his golden globe with faded light Yields to the solemn empire of the night; And in her sober majesty the Moon With milder glories mounts her silver throne; Amidst ten thousand orbs with splendour crown'd, That pour their tributary beams around; Through the long levell'd tube our strengthen'd sight Shall mark distinct the spangles of the night; From world to world shall dart the boundless eye, And stretch from star to star, from sky to sky.
The buzzing insect families appear,
When suns unbind the rigour of the year;
Quick glance the myriads round the evening bower,
Hosts of a day, or nations of an hour.
Astonish'd we shall see th' unfolding race,
Stretch'd out in bulk, within the polish'd glass;
Through whose small convex a new world we spy,
Ne'er seen before, but by a seraph's eye!
So long in darkness shut from human kind
Lay half God's wonders to a point confin'd !
But in one peopled drop we now survey
In pride of power some little monster play;
O'er tribes invisible he reigns alone,
And struts a tyrant of a world his own.
Now will we study Homer's awful page,
Now warm our souls with Pindar's noble rage:
To English lays shall Flaccus' lyre be strung,
And lofty Virgil speak the British tongue.
Immortal Virgil! at thy sacred name
I tremble now, and now I pant for fate;
With eager hopes this moment I aspire
To catch or emulate thy glorious fire;
The next pursue the rash attempt no more,
But drop the quill, bow, wonder, and adore;
By thy strong genius overcome and aw'd!
That fire from Heaven! that spirit of a god!
Pleas'd and transported with thy name I tend
Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend;
And from my first design by rapture led,
Neglect the living poet for the dead.
WHEN TUTOR TO LORD MIDDLESEX.
IN IMITATION OF HORACE, BOOK I. EPIST. XVIII.
SPENCE, with a friend you pass the hours away
In pointed jokes, yet innocently gay :
You ever differ'd from a flatterer more,
Than a chaste lady from a flaunting whore.
'Tis true you rallied every fault you found,
But gently tickled, while you cur'd the wound:
Unlike the paultry poets of the town,
Rogues who expose themselves for half a crown:
And still impose on every soul they meet
Rudeness for sense, and ribaldry for wit:
Who, though half-starv'd, in spite of time and place,
Repeat their rhymes, though dinner stays for grace:
And as their poverty their dresses fit,
They think of course a sloven is a wit;
But sense (a truth these coxcombs ne'er suspect)
Lies just 'twixt affectation and neglect.
One step still lower, if you can, descend, To the mean wretch, the great man's humble friend;
That moving shade, that pendant at his ear,
That two-legg'd dog, still pawing on the peer.
Studying his looks, and watching at the board,
He gapes to catch the droppings of my lord;
And, tickled to the soul at every joke,
Like a press'd watch, repeats what t'other spoke:
Echo to nonsense! such a scene to hear!
"Tis just like Punch and his interpreter.
On trifles some are earnestly absurd,
You'll think the world depends on ev'ry word.
"What, is not every mortal free to speak?
I'll give my reasons, tho' I break my neck."
And what's the question?--if it shines or rains,
Whether it is twelve or fifteen miles to Staines.
The wretch reduc'd to rags by every vice,
Pride, projects, races, mistresses, and dice,
The rich rogue shuns, though full as bad as he,
And knows a quarrel is good husbandry.
[pelf, ""Tis strange," cries Peter, "you are out of I'm sure I thought you wiser than myself;" Yet gives him nothing-but advice too late, Retrench, or rather mortgage your estate, I can advance the sum,-'tis best for both; But henceforth ent your coat to match your cloth. A minister, in mere revenge and sport, Shall give his foe a paltry place at court. The dupe for every royal birth-day buys New horses, coaches, clothes, and liveries; Plies at the levee, and distinguish'd there Lives on the royal whisper for a year; His wenches shine in Brussels and brocade! And now the wretch, ridiculously mad, Draws on his banker, mortgages and fails, Then to the country runs away from jails: There, ruin'd by the court, he sells a vote To the next burgess, as of old he bought; Rubs down the steeds which once his chariot bore, Or sweeps the town, which once he serv'd before. But, by this roving meteor led, I tend Beyond my theme, forgetful of my friend. Then take advice; I preach not out of time, When good lord Middlesex is bent on rhyme.
Their humour check'd, or inclination cross'd, Sometimes the friendship of the great is lost. Unless call'd out to wench, be sure comply, Hunt when he hunts, and lay the Fathers by: For your reward you gain his love, and dine On the best venison and the best French wine : Nor to lord ****** make the observation, How the twelve peers have answer'd their creation, Nor in your wine or wrath betray your trust, Be silent still, and obstinately just: Explore no secrets, draw no characters, For Echo will repeat, and walls have ears: Nor let a busy fool a secret know,
A secret gripes him till he lets it go : Words are like bullets, and we wish in vain,. When once discharg'd, to call them back again. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Defend, dear Spence, the honest and the civil, But to cry up a rascal-that's the devil. Who guards a good man's character, 'tis known, At the same time protects and guards his own. For as with houses 'tis with people's names, A shed may set a palace all on flames ; The fire neglected on the cottage preys, But mounts at last into a general blaze.
'Tis a fine thing, some think, a lord to know; I wish his tradesmen could but think so too
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