Both light and vital heat they give,
Cherish'd by them my love takes root;
From her kind looks does life receive,
Grows a fair plant, bears flowers and fruit.
Such fruit I ween did once deceive
The common parent of mankind,
And made transgress our mother Eve,
Poison its core, though fair its rind.

Yet so delicious is its taste,

I cannot from the bait abstain,
But to th' enchanting pleasure haste,
Though I were sure 'twould end in pain.

THE DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.

ALEXIS Shunn'd his fellow-swains,
Their rural sports and jocund strains;
(Heaven guard us all from Cupid's bow!)
He lost his crook, he left his flocks,

And, wandering through the lonely rocks,
He nourish'd endless wo.

The nymphs and shepherds round him came;
His grief some pity, others blame;
The fatal cause all kindly seek:

He mingled his concern with theirs;

He gave them back their friendly tears;
He sigh'd, but would not speak.
Clorinda came among the rest,

And she, too, kind concern express'd,
And ask'd the reason of his wo:

She ask'd, but with an air and mien

That made it easily foreseen

She fear'd too much to know.

The shepherd raised his mournful head;
And will you pardon me, he said,
While I the cruel truth reveal,

Which nothing from my breast should tear,
Which never should offend your ear,
But that you bid me tell?

"Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain,
Since you appeared upon the plain;
You are the cause of all my care:
Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart,
Ten thousand torments vex my heart;
I love and I despair.

Too much Alexis I have heard:
'Tis what I thought, 'tis what I fear'd
And yet I pardon you, she cried:
But you shall promise ne'er again

To breathe your vows or speak your pain.
He bow'd, obey'd, and died.

THE OLD GENTRY.

THAT all from Adam first began,
None but ungodly Whiston doubts,
And that his son and his son's son

Were all but ploughmen, clowns, and louts.

Each when his rustic pains began
To merit pleaded equal right;
'Twas only who left off at noon,
Or who went on to work till night.

But coronets we owe to crowns,
And favour to a court's affection;
By nature we are Adam's sons,
And sons of Anstis by election.

Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd
Since thy forefathers held the plough;
When this in story shall be told,
Add, that my kindred do so now.

The man who by his labour gets His bread in independent state, Who never begs, and seldom eats, Himself can fix or change his fate.

His tropes and figures will content ye
He should possess to all degrees
The art of talk; he practises

Full fourteen hours in four-and-twenty.

THE REMEDY

Worse than the Disease.

I SENT for Ratcliffe, was so ill,
That other doctors gave me over,
He felt my pulse, prescribed his pill,
And I was likely to recover.

But when the wit began to wheeze,
And wine had warm'd the politician,
Cured yesterday of my disease,
I died last night of my physician.

THE SECRETARY.

Written at the Hague, 1696.

WHILE with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the business of six,
In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a W*** on my right
No memoirs to compose, and no postboy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee:
This night and the next shall be hers, shall be
To good or ill fortune the third we resign: [mine,
Thus scorning the world, and superior to fate,
I drive on my car in processional state;
So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode,
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse;
Since none can with justice my pleasure oppose,
In Holland half drown'd in interest and prose?
By Greece and past ages what need I be tried,
When the Hague and the present are both on my
And is it enough for the joys of the day [side?
To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say?
When good Vendergoes and his provident Vrow,
As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow
That search all the province, you'll find no man
So bless'd as the Englishen heer Secretar' is. [dar is

CONSIDERATIONS

On part of the 88th Psalm.-A College
Exercise, 1690.

HEAVY, O Lord, on me thy judgments lie;
Accursed I am while God rejects my cry.
O'erwhelm'd in darkness and despair I groan,
And every place is hell, for God is gone.
O Lord, arise, and let thy beams control
Those horrid clouds that press my frighted soul:
Save the poor wanderer from eternal night,
Thou that art the God of light.

Downward I hasten to my destined place;
There none obtain thy aid, or sing thy praise,
Soon shall I lie in death's deep ocean drown'd:
Is mercy there, or sweet forgiveness found?
O save me yet whilst on the brink I stand;
Rebuke the storm, and waft my soul to land,
O let her rest beneath thy wing secure,
Thou that art the God of power.

Behold the prodigal! to thee I come,
To hail my father, and to seek my home.
Nor refuge could I find, nor friend abroad,
Straying in vice, and destitute of God.
O let thy terrors and my anguish end!
Be thou my refuge, and be thou my friend:
Receive the son thou didst so long reprove,
Thou that art the God of love.

THE PEDANT.

LYSANDER talks extremely well; On any subject let him dwell

TWO RIDDLES,-1710. SPHINX was a monster that would eat Whatever stranger she could get,

Unless his ready wit disclosed The subtile riddle she proposed.

Edipus was resolved to go

And try what strength of parts would do;
Says Phinx, on this depends your fate;
Tell me what animal is that

Which has four feet at morning bright,
Has two at noon, and three at night?
'Tis Man, said he, who, weak by nature,
At first creeps, like his fellow-creature,
Upon all four; as years accrue,
With sturdy steps he walks on two;
in age at length grows weak and sick,
For his third leg adopts the stick.

Now, in your turn, 'tis just, methinks, You should resolve me, Madam Sphinx, What greater stranger yet is he

Who has four legs, then two, then three;
Then loses one, then gets two more,
And runs away at last on four ?

RESOLVE me, Cloe, what is this,
Or forfeit me one precious kiss.
'Tis the first offspring of the Graces
Bears different forms in different places;
Acknowledged fine where'er beheld,
Yet fancied finer when conceal'd.
'Twas Flora's wealth, and Circe's charm,
Pandora's box of good and harm;
'Twas Mars' wish, Endymion's dream,
Apelles' draught, and Ovid's theme:
This guided Theseus through the maze,
And sent him home with life and praise;
But this undid the Phrygian boy,
And blew the flames that ruin'd Troy :
This show'd great kindness to old Greece,
And helped rich Jason to the fleece:

This through the East just vengeance hurl'd,
And lost poor Anthony the world:

Injured, though Lucrece found her doom;
This banish'd tyranny from Rome:

Appeas'd though Lais gain'd her hire;

This set Persepolis on fire;

For this Alcides learn'd to spin,

His club laid down, and lion's skin:
For this Apollo deign'd to keep
With servile care a mortal's sheep;
For this the father of the gods,
Content to leave his high abodes,
In borrow'd figures loosely ran,
Europa's bull, and Leda's swan:
For this he reassumes the nod,
(While Semele commands the god)
Launches the boat, and shakes the poles,
Though Momus laughs, and Juno scolds.
Here listening Cloe smiled, and said,
Your riddle is not hard to read:
I guess it Fair one, if you do,
Need I, alas! the theme pursue?
For this thou seest, for this I leave
Whate'er the world thinks wise or grave.
Ambition, business, friendship, news,
My useful books and serious Muse:
For this I willingly decline
The mirth of feasts and joys of wine,
And choose to sit and talk with thee
(As thy great orders may decree)

Of cocks and bulls, of flutes and fiddles,
Of idle tales, and foolish riddles.

Among the guests, which e'er my house
Received it never can produce
Of honour a more glorious proof-
Though Dorset used to bless the roof.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, 1700,

In the beginning of Robe's Geography.
Or all that William rules, or Robe
Describes, great Rhea, of thy globe,
When or on posthorse or in chaise,
With much expense and little ease,
My destin'd miles I shall have gone,
By Thames, or Maese, by Po, or Rhone,
And found no foot of earth my own;
Great Mother, let me once be able
To have a garden, house, and stable,
That I may read, and ride, and plant,
Superior to desire or want;

And as health fails, and years increase,
Sit down and think, and die in peace.
Oblige thy favourite undertakers
To throw me in but twenty acres ;
This number sure they may allow,
For pasture ten, and ten for plough;
Tis all that I would wish or hope,
For ine, and John, and Nell, and Crop.
Then as thou wilt dispose the rest
(And let not Fortune spoil the jest)
To those who at the market-rate
Can barter honour for estate.

Now if thou grant'st me my request,
To make thy vot'ry truly bless'd,
Let curs'd revenge and saucy pride
To some bleak rock far off be tied,
Nor e'er approach my rural seat,
To tempt me to be base and great.

And, Goddess, this kind office done,
Charge Venus to command her son
(Wherever else she lets him rove)
To shun my house, and field, and grove:
Peace cannot dwell with Hate or Love.
Hear, gracious Rhea, what I say,
And thy petitioner shall pray.

WRITTEN IN

MONTAIGNE'S ESSAYS.

GIVEN TO THE

DUKE OF SHREWSBURY IN FRANCE,
After the Peace, 1713.

DICTATE, O mighty judge, what thou hast seen
Of cities and of courts, of books and men,
And deign to let thy servant hold the pen.

Through ages, thus, I may presume to live,
And from the transcript of thy prose receive
What my own short-lived verse can never give.

Thus shall fair Britain, with a gracious smile,
Accept the work, and the instructed isle
For more than treaties made shall bless my toil.

Nor longer hence the Gallic style preferr'd,
Wisdom in English idiom shall he heard,
While Talbot tells the world where Montaigne
err'd.

WRITTEN IN THE BEGINNING OF

MEZERAY'S HISTORY OF FRANCE.

WHATE'ER thy countrymen have done
By law and wit, by sword and gun,
In thee is faithfully recited,
And all the living world that view
Thy work, give thee the praises due
At once instructed and delighted.

Yet for the fame of all these deeds
What beggar in the invalids,
With lameness broke, with blindness smitten,

Wish'd ever decently to die,
To have been either Mezeray,
Or any Monarch he has written?

It's strange, dear Author, yet it true is,
That down from Pharamond to Louis
All covet life, yet call it pain,
And feel the ill, yet shun the cure:
Can sense this paradox endure?
Resolve me, Cambray, or Fontaine.

The man in graver tragic known
"Though his best part long since was done)
Still on the stage desires to tarry,
And he who play'd the Harlequin,
After the jest still loads the scene,
Unwilling to retire though weary.

WRITTEN IN THE

NOUVEAUX INTERESTS

DES PRINCES DE L'EUROPE. BLESS'D be the princes who have fought For pompous names or wide dominion, Since by their error we are taught That happiness is but opinion.

ON A PICTURE

OF

SENECA DYING IN A BATH,

BY JORDAIN,

At the Right Honourable the Earl of Exeter's, at Burleigh House.

WHILE cruel Nero only drains
The moral Spaniard's ebbing veins,
By study worn, and slack with age,
How dull, how thoughtless is his rage?
Heighten'd revenge he should have took;
He should have burnt his tutor's book,
And long have reign'd supreme in vice;
One nobler wretch can only rise;
'Tis he whose fury shall deface
The Stoic's image in this piece;
For while unhurt, divine Jordain,
Thy work and Seneca's remain,
He still has body, still has soul,

And lives and speaks, restored and whole.

WRITTEN IN AN OVID.

Ovrd is the surest guide
You can name to show the way
To any woman, maid, or bride,
Who resolves to go astray.

VERSES

Spoken to Lady Henrietta Cavendish Holles Harley, Countess of Oxford, in the Library of St. John's College, Cambridge, Nov. 9, 1719.

MADAM,

SINCE Anna visited the muse's seat,
(Around her tomb let weeping angels wait)
Hail, thou, the brightest of thy sex, and best,
Most gracious neighbour and most welcome guest:
Not Harley's self, to Cam and Isis dear,
In virtues and in arts great Oxford's heir,
Not he such present honour shall receive
As to his consort we aspire to give.

Writings of men our thought to-day neglects,
To pay due homage to the softer sex:
Plato and Tully we forbear to read,

And their great followers whom this house has bred,
To study lessons from thy morals given,
And shining characters impress'd by Heaven.
Science in books no longer we pursue,
Minerva's self in Harriet's face we view;
For when with Beauty we can Virtue join,
We paint the semblance of a form divine.

Their pious incense let our neighbours bring
To the kind memory of some bounteous king:
With grateful hand due altars let them raise
To some good knight's or holy prelate's praise;
We tune our voices to a nobler theme,
Your eyes we bless, your praises we proclaim;
Saint John's was founded in a woman's name.
Enjoin'd by statute, to the fair we bow;
In spite of time we keep our ancient vow;
What Margret Tudor was, is Harriet Harley now.

SEEING THE

DUKE OF ORMOND'S PICTURE

At Sir Godfrey Kneller's.

OUT from the injured canvas, Kneller, strike
These lines too faint; the picture is not like.
Exalt thy thought, and try thy toil again:
Dreadful in arms, on Landen's glorious plain
Place Ormond's Duke: impendent in the air
Let his keen sabre, comet-like, appear,
Where'er it points denouncing death: below
Draw routed squadrons, and the numerous foe
Falling beneath, or flying from his blow;
Till weak with wounds, and cover'd o'er with blood,
Which from the patriot's breast in torrents flow'd,
He faints: his steed no longer hears the rein,
But stumbles o'er the heap his hand had slain.
And now exhausted, bleeding, pale he lies,
Lovely, sad object! in his half-closed eyes
Stern Vengeance yet and hostile Terror stand:
His front yet threatens, and his frowns command.
The Gallic chiefs their troops around him call,
Fear to approach him, though they see him fall.

O Kneller! could thy shades and lights express
The perfect hero in that glorious dress,
Ages to come might Ormond's picture know,
And palms for thee beneath his laurels grow;
In spite of time thy work might ever shine,
Nor Homer's colours last so long as thine.

UPON THIS

PASSAGE IN SCALIGERIANA:

Les allemans ne ce soucient pas quel vin ils boivent pouveu que ce soit vin, ni quel Latin ils parlent veu que ce soit Latin.

WHEN you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin and stum'd wine:
They never taste who always drink;
They always talk who never think.

ON BISHOP ATTERBURY'S Burying the Duke of Buckingham, 1721. I HAVE no hopes, the Duke he says, and dies. In sure and certain hopes-the prelate cries: Of these two learned peers, I pr'ythee say, man, Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman? The Duke he stands an infidel confess'd: He's our dear brother, quoth the lordly priest. The Duke, though knave, still brother dear he cries And who can say the reverend Prelate lies?

ON MY BIRTH DAY,
July 21st.

I, My dear, was born to-day,
So all my jolly comrades say;

They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth.
Little, alas! my comrades know
That I was born to pain and wo.
To thy denial, to thy scorn,
Better I had ne'er been born:
I wish to die e'en whilst I say,
I, my dear, was born to-day.

I, my dear, was born to-day;
Shall I salute the rising ray
Well spring of all my joy and wo,
Clotilda, thou alone dost know:
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?
Then let me see great Venus chase
Imperious anger from thy face;
Then let me hear thee smiling say,
Thou, my dear, wert born to-day.

LOVE DISARMED.

BENEATH a myrtle's verdant shade,
As Cloe half asleep was laid,
Cupid perch'd lightly on her breast,
And in that heaven desired to rest;
Over her paps his wings he spread,
Between he found a downy bed,
And nestled in his little head.

Still lay the god: the nymph, surprised,
Yet mistress of herself, devised
How she the vagrant might enthral,
And captive him who captives all.

Her bodice half way she unlaced,
About his arms she slily cast
The silken bond, and held him fast.

The god awaked, and thrice in vain
He strove to break the cruel chain;
And thrice in vain he shook his wing,
Incumber'd in the silken string.
Fluttering, the god, and weeping said,
Pity poor Cupid, generous maid,
Who happen'd, being blind, to stray,
And on thy bosom lost his way;
Who stray'd, alas! but knew too well
He never there must hope to dwell.
Set an unhappy prisoner free
Who ne'er intended harm to thee.

To me pertains not, she replies,
To know or care where Cupid flies;
What are his haunts, or which his way,
Where he would dwell, or whither stray;
Yet will I never set thee free,

For harm was meant, and harm to me.
Vain fears that vex thy virgin heart!
I'll give thee up my how and dart,
Untangle but this cruel chain,
And freely let me fly again.

Agreed: secure my virgin heart;
Instant give up thy bow and dart;
The chain I'll in return untie,
And freely thou again shalt fly.
Thus she the captive did deliver;
The captive thus gave up his quiver.
The god, disarm'd, e'er since that day
Passes his life in harmless play;
Flies round, or sits upon her breast,
A little fluttering idle guest.

E'er since that day the beauteous maid
Governs the world in Cupid's stead,
Directs his arrows as she wills,
Gives grief or pleasure, spares or kills.

A LOVER'S ANGER.

four.

LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP;

A PASTORAL.

BY MRS. ELIZABETH SINGER.

AMARYLLIS.

WHILE from the skies the ruddy sun descends,
And rising night the evening shade extends;
While pearly dews o'erspread the fruitful field,
And closing flowers reviving odours yield,
Let us, beneath these spreading trees, recite
What from our hearts our Muses may indite:
Nor need we in this close retirement fear
Lest any swain our amorous secrets hear.

SYLV. To every shepherd I would mine proclaim, Since fair Aminta is my softest theme:

A stranger to the loose delights of love,
My thoughts the nobler warmth of friendship prove,
And, while its pure and sacred fire I sing,
Chaste goddess of the Groves, thy succour bring.
AMAR. Propitious god of Love, my breast inspire
With all thy charms, with all thy pleasing fire;
Propitious god of Love, thy succour bring,
Whilst I thy darling, thy Alexis sing;
Alexis, as the opening blossoms fair,
Lovely as light, and soft as yielding air:
For him each virgin sighs, and on the plains
The happy youth above each rival reigns;
Nor to the echoing groves and whispering spring
In sweeter strains does artful Conon sing,
When loud applauses fill the crowded groves,
And Phoebus the superior song approves.

SYLV. Beauteous Aminta is as early light
Breaking the melancholy shades of night.
When she is near all anxious trouble flies,
And our reviving hearts confess her eyes.
Young Love, and blooming Joy, and gay Desires,
In every breast the beauteous nymph inspires;
And on the plain when she no more appears,
The plain a dark and glooniy prospect wears.
In vain the streams roll on; the eastern breeze
Dances in vain among the trembling trees:
In vain the birds begin their evening song,
And to the silent night their notes prolong;
Nor groves, nor crystal streams, nor verdant field,
Does wonted pleasure in her absence yield.

AMAR. And in his absence all the pensive day
In some obscure retreat I lonely stray;
All day, to the repeating caves, complain
In mournful accents and a dying strain:
Dear lovely youth I cry to all around;

Dear lovely youth the flattering vales resound.
SYLV. On flowery banks, by every murmuring
stream,

[shine.

Aminta is my Muse's softest theme;
'Tis she that does my artful notes refine;
With fair Aminta's name my noblest verse shall
AMAR. I'll twine fresh garlands for Alexis' brows,
And consecrate to him eternal vows;
The charming youth shall my Apollo prove;
He shall adorn my songs, and tune my voice to love

TO THE AUTHOR

OF THE FOREGOING PASTORAL. By Sylvia if thy charming self be meant; If friendship be thy virgin vows' extent, O! let me in Aminta's praises join, Hers my esteem shall be, my passion thine. When for thy head the garland I prepare, A second wreath shall bind Aminta's hair; And when my choicest songs thy worth proclaim, Alternate verse shall bless Aminta's name; My heart shall own the justice of her cause, And Love himself submit to Friendship's laws. But if beneath thy numbers' soft disguise Some favour'd swain, some true Alexis, iies; If Amaryllis breathes thy secret pains, And thy fond heart beats measure to thy strains, May'st thou, howe'er I grieve, for ever find The flame propitious and the lover kind; May Venus long exert her happy power, And make thy beauty like thy verse endure; May every god his friendly aid afford, Pan guard thy flock, and Ceres bless thy board. But if, by chance, the series of thy joys Permit one thought less cheerful to arise,

Piteous transfer it to the mournful swain,
Who loving much, who not beloved again,
Feels an ill-fated passion's last excess,
And dies in wo that thou may'st live in peace.

CHARITY:

A Paraphrase on 1 Cor. chap. 13.

DID sweeter sounds adorn my flowing tongue
Than ever man pronounced or angel sung;
Had I all knowledge, human and divine,
That thought can reach or science can define;
And had I power to give that knowledge birth
In all the speeches of the babbling earth;
Did Shadrach's zeal my glowing breast inspire,
To weary tortures and rejoice in fire;
Or had I faith like that which Israel saw
When Moses gave them miracles and law;
Yet, gracious Charity, indulgent guest,
Were not thy power exerted in my breast,
Those speeches would send up unheeded prayer,
That scorn of life would be but wild despair;
A cymbal's sound were better than my voice;
My faith were form, my eloquence were noise.
Charity! decent, modest, easy, kind,

Softens the high, and rears the abject mind;
Knows with just reins, and gentle hand, to guide
Betwixt vile shame and arbitrary pride.
Not soon provoked, she easily forgives,
And much she suffers, as she much believes.
Soft peace she brings wherever she arrives;
She builds our quiet as she forms our lives;
Lays the rough paths of peevish Nature ev'n,
And opens in each heart a little heaven.

Each other gift which God on man bestows
Its proper bounds and due reflection knows,
To one fix'd purpose dedicates its power,
And finishing its act, exists no more.
Thus, in obedience to what heaven decrees,
Knowledge shall fail, and prophecy shall cease;
But lasting Charity's more ample sway,
Nor bound by time, nor subject to decay,
In happy triumph shall for ever live,

And endless good diffuse, and endless praise receive.
As through the artist's intervening glass
Our eye observes the distant planets pass,
A little we discover, but allow

That more remains unseen than art can show ; So whilst our mind its knowledge would improve, (Its feeble eye intent on things above)

High as we may we lift our reason up,
By faith directed, and confirm'd by hope;
Yet are we able only to survey

Dawnings of beams, and promises of day,

Heaven's fuller effluence mocks our dazzled sight,
Too great is swiftness, and too strong is light.
But soon the mediate clouds shall be dispell'd,
The sun shall soon be face to face beheld,
In all his robes, with all his glory on,
Seated sublime on his meridian throne.

Then constant Faith and holy Hope shall die,
One lost in certainty and one in joy;
Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity,
Triumphant sister, greatest of the three,
Thy office and thy nature still the same,
Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame,
Shalt still survive-

Shalt stand before the host of heaven confess'd,
For ever blessing, and for ever bless'd.

UPON HONOUR. A FRAGMENT. HONOUR, I say, or honest fame,

I mean the substance, not the name,
(Not that light heap of tawdry wares
Of ermine, coronets, and stars,
Which often is by merit sought,
By gold and flattery oftener bought;
The shade for which ambition looks
In Selden's or in Ashmole's books)
But the true glory which proceeds,
Reflected bright, from honest deeds,
Which we in our own breast perceive,
And kings can neither take nor give.

ADRIANI MORIENTIS AD ANIMAM SUAM. ANIMULA, vagula, blandula Hospes, comesque corporis,

In awful pomp and melancholy state,
See settled Reason on the judgment-seat;
Around her crowd Distrust, and Doubt, and Fear,
And thoughtful Foresight, and tormenting Care;
Far from the throne the trembling Pleasures stand,
Chain'd up or exiled by her stern command.
Wretched her subjects, gloomy sits the queen,
Till happy chance reverts the cruel scene;
And apish Folly, with her wild resort
Of wit and jest, disturbs the solemn court.

See the fantastic Minstrelsy advance
To breathe the song and animate the dance.
Bless'd the usurper! happy the surprise!
Her mimic postures catch our eager eyes;
Her jingling bells affect our captive ear,
And in the sights we see and sounds we hear,
Against our judgment she our sense employs,
The laws of troubled reason she destroys,
And in their place rejoices to indite

Wild schemes of mirth and plans of loose delight.

IN IMITATION OF ANACREON.
LET them censure, what care I?
The herd of critics I defy:
Let the wretches know I write
Regardless of their grace or spite,
No, no; the fair, the gay, the young,
Govern the numbers of my song:
All that they approve is sweet,
And all is sense that they repeat.

Bid the warbling Nine retire:
Venus, string thy servant's lyre;
Love shall be my endless theme;
Pleasure shall triumph over fame:
And when these maxims I decline,
Apollo, may thy fate be mine;
May I grasp at empty praise,
And lose the nymph to gain the bays.

HORACE, LIB. I. EP. IX. IMITATED. To the Right Honourable Mr. Harley.

Septimius, Claudi, nimirum intelligit unus, Quanti me facias, &c.

DEAR Dick, howe'er it comes into his head,
Believes as firmly as he does his creed,
That you and I Sir are extremely great,
Though I plain Matt, you Minister of State.
One word from me, without all doubt, he says,
Would fix his fortune in some little place.

Richard Shelton, Esq. whom Mr. Prior, in his. will, calls his dear friend and companion.