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Without a star, a coronet or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment:the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone :—and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG BY MRS. BULKLEY
IN SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER'
AIR.—The Humours of Ballamagairy Ah me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty ; but fail to relieve me; He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.
But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look nor a smile shall my passion discover : She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
VERSES FROM THE PROSE WRITINGS
From the 'ENQUIRY INTO THE PRESENT STATE OF
Written and spoken by the Poet Laberius, a Roman Knight, whom Cæsar forced
upon the Stage. Preserved by Macrobius
What! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age !
Scarce half alive, oppress’d with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
No force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappallid by fear,
With honest thrift I beld my honour dear :
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more.
For ah ! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once, I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well ;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND WITH LIGHTNING
Imitated from the Spanish
SURB 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN
SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make,
Expressive of my duty ?
My heart, a victim to thine
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give--and let 'em :
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
I'll give them—when I get 'em.
I'll give—but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion ;
Such short-liv'd offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:
I'll give theeah ! too charming maid,
I'll give theo—to the devil.
WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet, why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind ;
freely lent to all the poor,
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wond'rous winning,
And never followed wicked ways,--
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew,-
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her,-
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all ;
The doctors found, when she was dead,-
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,
For Kent-street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more,--
She had not died to-day.
From THE CITIZEN OF THE WORLD'
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER
WHERE the Red Lion flaring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parsons' black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread ;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ;
The royal game of Goose was there in view,
And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face;
The morn was cold, he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor'd,
And five crack'd teacups dress’d the chimney board ;
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day !
PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER OF
To you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all commanding shine ?
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face !
She speaks ! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to this?
As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
With fond complaint address'd the listening Jove;
'Twas joy and endless blisses all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.
ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
Ye Muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch'd away ;
O ! had he lived another year !
He had not died to-day.
O! were he born to bless mankind
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind
Whene'er he went before.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sheep;
Even pitying hills would drop a tear
If hills could learn to weep.
His bounty in exalted strain
may well display;
Since none implor'd relief in vain
That went reliev'd away.
And hark! I hear the tuneful throng
His obsequies forbid,
He still shall live, shall live as long
As ever dead man did.
AN DPIGRAM, ADDRESSED TO THE GENTLEMAN REFLECTED ON IN
THE ROSCIAD, A POEM, BY THE AUTHOR
Worried with debts, and past all hopes of bail,
His pen he prostitutes, ť avoid a jail.- Roscom.
LET not the hungry Bavius' angry stroke
Awake resentment, or your rage provoke-
But pitying his distress, let virtue shine,
And giving each your bounty, let him dine.
For thus retain'd, as learned counsel can,
Each case, however bad, he'll new japan ;
And by a quick transition, plainly show
'Twas no defect of yours, but pocket low,
That caus'd his putrid kennel to o'erflow.
'Twas you, or I, or he, or all together,
'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;
This, I believe, between us great or small,
You, I, he, wrote it not-'twas Churchill's all.