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HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown, First fought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all th' ambition his high foul could feel, To wear red ftockings, and to dine with Steel. Some ends of verfe his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with thefe, he ventur'd on the town, And, with a borrow'd play, outdid poor Crown. There he stopp'd fhort, nor fince has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little : Like ftunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verfe, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

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So fome coarfe country-wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and firft turns chambermaid; 16 Aukward and fupple, each devoir to pay ; She flatters her good lady twice a-day; Thought wondrous honeft, though of mean degree, And ftrangely lik'd for her fimplicity : In a tranflated fuit, then tries the town, With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own; But just endur'd the winter fhe began, And in four months a batter'd harridan. Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and fhrunk, To bawd for others, and go fhares with punk. 26

SONG,

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SONG, by a PERSON of QUALITY.

Written in the Year MDCCXXXIII.

I.

'LUTT'RING fspread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart;
I a flave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to Art.

II.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days confuming,
All beneath yon flow'ry rocks.

III.

Thus the Cyprian Goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth:
Him the Boar, in filence creeping,
Gor'd with unrelenting tooth.

IV.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Difcretion, ftring the lyre;
Sooth my ever-waking flumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

V.

Gloomy Pluto, King of Terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,

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Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Wat'ring foft Elyfian plains.

VI.

Mournful cyprefs, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus hov'ring o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

VII.

Melancholy fmooth Maander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On the margin lovers wander,
With thy flow'ry chaplets crown'd,

VIII. Thus when Philomela drooping, Softly feeks her filent Mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody refigns to Fate.

END OF VOLUME SECOND,

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p.1. Whiston bed this doctrine swrote in safford of it see vic Wakefield thhistone Ver¬

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There St. John mingles will my friends to The feast of reason and the flow of soul P. 122 MR 2 millary Horace

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And he who re fuition's so sublines.

It is at porty but prose

Day as feminine: beheld, and sicking at the sight

Veils her fan glosin in the share of

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Who Have how like whips menti

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