In double beauty say your prayer:
Our Father first,-then Notre Pere:
And, dearest child, along the day,
In every thing you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love, and angels aid ye.
If to these precepts you attend,
No second letter need I send,
And so I rest your constant friend.

LINES WRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF TOM BRITTON THE SMALL-COAL-MAN,

PAINTED BY MR. WOOLASTON.

THOUGH doom'd to small-coal, yet to arts ally'd,
Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;
Music's best patron, judge of books and men,
Belov'd and honour'd by Apollo's train:
In Greece or Rome sure never did appear
So bright a genius, in so dark a sphere:
More of the man had artfully been sav'd,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue grav'd.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST.

SAYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife, "You never yet told me one truth in your life." Vext Pontia no way could this thesis allow, "You're a cuckold," says she, "do I tell you truth now?"

This stone had still remain'd unmark'd,
I still writ prose, True still have bark'd.
But envious Fate has claim'd its due:
Here lies the mortal part of True:
His deathless virtues must survive,
To better us that are alive.

His prudence and his wit were seen
In that, from Mary's grace and mien,
He own'd the power, and lov'd the queen.
By long obedience he confest

That serving her was to be blest-
Ye murmurers, let True evince

That men are beasts, and dogs have sense!
His faith and truth all Whitehall knows,
He ne'er could fawn or flatter those
Whom he believ'd were Mary's foes:
Ne'er skulk'd from whence his sovereign led him,
Or snarl'd against the hand that fed him.-
Read this ye statesmen now in favour,
And mend your own, by True's behaviour!

EPIGRAM.

To Richmond and Peterburgh, Matt gave his

letters, [betters. And thought they were safe in the hands of his How happen'd it then that the packets were lost? These were Knights of the Garter, not Knights of the Post.

WRITTEN IN

LADY HOWE'S OVID'S EPISTLES. HOWEVER high, however cold, the fair, However great the dying lover's care, Ovid, kind author, found him some relief, Fang'd his unruly sighs, and set his grief: Taught him what accents had the power to move, And always gain'd him pity, sometimes love. But, oh! what pangs torment the destin'd heart, That feels the wound, yet dares not show the dart; What ease could Ovid to his sorrows give, Who must not speak, and therefore cannot live?

THE VICEROY,

A BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF, LADY ISABELLA'S TRAGEDY. Or Nero, tyrant, petty king2,

Who heretofore did reign
In fam'd Hibernia, Ì will sing,

And in a ditty plain.

He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you shall hear;
So ill he exercis'd his power,

That he himself did fear.

Full proud and arrogant was he,
And covetous withal;
The guilty he would still set free,
But guiltless men enthral.

He, with a haughty impious nod,
Would curse and dogmatize;
Not fearing either man or God:
Gold he did idolize.

A patriot' of high degree,

Who could no longer bear
This upstart Viceroy's tyranny,
Against him did declare.

And, arm'd with truth, impeach'd the Don
Of his enormous crimes,
Which I'll unfold to you anon,

In low, but faithful rhymes.

2 Lord Coningsby, one of the lords justices of Ireland.

The earl of Bellamont impeached Coningsby.

Attend, and justly I'll recite

His treasons to you all,

The heads set in their native light
(And sigh poor Gaphny's fall).
That traitorously he did abuse
The power in him repos'd,
And wickedly the same did use,
On all mankind impos'd.
That he, contrary to all law,

An oath did frame and make,
Compelling the militia

Th' illegal oath to take.
Free-quarters for the army too
He did exact and force
On Protestants; his love to show,
Than Papist us'd them worse.
On all provisions destin'd for
The camp at Limerick,
He laid a tax full hard and sore,
Though many men were sick.
The sutlers too he did ordain

For licences should pay,
Which they refus'd with just disdain,
And fled the camp away.

By which provisions were so scant,
That hundreds there did die ;
The soldiers food and drink did want,
Nor famine could they fly.

He so much lov'd his private gain,
He could not hear or see;

They might or die, or might complain,
Without relief pardie.

That, above and against all right,

By word of mouth did he,
In council sitting, hellish spite!
The farmer's fate decree:
That he, O Ciel! without trial,
Straightway should hanged be;
Though then the courts were open all,
Yet Nero judge would be.

No sooner said, but it was done,

The bourreau did his worst ;
Gaphny, alas is dead and gone,
And left his judge accurst.

In this concise despotic way
Unhappy Gaphny fell,
Which did all honest men affray,
As truly it might well.

Full two good hundred pounds a year,
This poor man's real estate,

He settled on his favourite dear,
And Culliford can say't.

Besides, he gave five hundred pound

To Fielding, his own scribe,

Who was his bail; one friend he found, He ow'd him to the bribe.

✦ Journal, Sabbati, 16 die Decemb:is, 1693,

But for this horrid murder vile

None did him prosecute;

His old friend help'd him o'er the stile :
With Satan who dispute !

With France, fair England's mortal foe,
A trade he carry'd on ;

Had any other don't, I trow,
To Tripos he had gone.
That he did likewise traitorously,
To bring his ends to bear,
Enrich himself most knavishly;
O thief without compare!

Vast quantities of stores did he
Embezzle and purloin;
Of the king's stores he kept a key
Converting them to coin.

The forfeited estates also,

Both real and personal,
Did with the stores together go,
Fierce Cerberus swallow'd all.

Mean while the soldiers sigh'd and sobb'd,
For not one sous had they;

His excellence had each man fobb'd,
For he had sunk their pay.

Nero, without the least disguise,
The Papists, at all times,
Still favour'd, and their robberies
Look'd on as trivial crimes.

The Protestants, whom they did rob
During his government,

Were forc'd with patience, like good Job,
To rest themselves content.

For he did basely them refuse

All legal remedy;

The Romans still he well did use,
Still screen'd their roguery.
Succinctly thus to you I've told
How this Viceroy did reign;
And other truths I shall unfold,
For truth is always plain.

The best of queens he hath revil'd,
Before and since her death;
He, cruel and ungrateful, smil'd
When she resign'd her breath

Forgetful of the favours kind

She had on him bestow'd,
Like Lucifer his rancorous mind,
He lov'd nor her nor God.

But listen, Nero, lend thine ears,
As still thou hast them on;
Hear what Britannia says, with ears,
Of Anna dead and gone.

"Oh! sacred be her memory,
For ever dear her name!
There never was, nor e'er can be,
A brighter, juster dame.

"Blest be my sons, and eke all those

Who on her praises dwell!

She conquer'd Britain's fiercest foes,
She did all queens excel.

"All princes, kings, and potentates,

Ambassadors did send :

All nations, provinces, and states, Sought Anna for their friend.

"In Anna they did all confide,

For Anna they could trust: Her royal faith they all had try'd, For Anna still was just.

66 Truth, Mercy, Justice, did surround Her awful judgment-seat,

In her the Graces all were found,
In Anna all complete.

She held the sword and balance right,

And sought her people's good;

In clemency she did delight,

Her reign not stain'd with blood.

"Her gracious goodness, piety,
In all her deeds did shine,
And bounteous was her charity;
All attributes divine.

"Consummate wisdom, meekness all,
Adorn'd the words she spoke,
When they from her fair lips did fall;
And sweet her lovely look.

"Ten thousand glorious deeds to crown,
She caus'd dire war to cease:
A greater empress ne'er was known;
She fix'd the world in peace.

"This last and godlike act achiev'd,

To Heaven she wing'd her flight:
Her loss, with tears, all Europe griev'd;
Their strength, and dear delight.
"Leave we in bliss this heavenly saint,
Revere, ye just, her urn;
Her virtues high and excellent,
Astrea gone we mourn.
"Commemorate, my sons, the day
Which gave great Anna birth:
Keep it for ever and for aye,

And annual be your mirth."

Illustrious George now fills the throne,

Our wise benign good king:

Who can his wondrous deeds make known, Or his bright actions sing?

Thee, favourite Nero, he has deign'd

To raise to high degree!

Well thou thy honours hast sustain'd,
Well vouch'd thy ancestry.

But pass-These honours on thee laid,
Can they e'er make thee white?
Don't Gaphny's blood, which thou hast shed,
Thy guilty soul affright?

Oh! are there not, grim mortal, tell,
Places of bliss and woe?

Oh! is there not a Heaven, a Hell?
But whither wilt thou go?

Can nought change thy obdurate mind?
Wilt thou for ever rail?

The prophet on thee well refin'd,
And set thy wit to sale.

How thou art lost to sense and shame,

Three countries witness be:
Thy conduct all just men do blame,
Libera nos, Domine!

Dame Justice waits thee, well I ween,
Her sword is brandish'd high:

Nought can thee from her vengeance screen,
Nor canst thou from her fly.

Heavy her ire will fall on thee,
The glittering steel is sure:
Sooner or later, all agree,

She cuts off the impure.

To her I leave thee, gloomy peer!
Think on thy crimes committed s
Repent, and be for once sincere,
Thou ne'er wilt be De-Witted.

APOLOGY TO A LADY,

WHO TOLD ME, I COULD NOT LOVE HER HEARTILY, BECAUSE I HAD LOVED OTHERS.

PROBABLY BY MR. PRIOR.

IN IMITATION OF MR. WALLER.

FAIR Sylvia, cease to blame my youth, For having lov'd before;

So men, ere they have learnt the truth,
Strange deities adore.

My youth ('tis true) has often rang'd,
Like bees o'er gaudy flowers;
And many thousand loves has chang'd,
Till it was fixt in yours.

For, Sylvia, when I saw those eyes,
'Twas soon determin'd there;
Stars might as well forsake the skies,
And vanish into air!

If I from this great rule do err,
New beauties to explore;
May I again turn wanderer,
And never settle more!

When Cupid whisper'd in my ear,

"Use more prevailing charms, Fond, whining, modest fool, draw near,

And clasp her in your arms. "With eager kisses tempt the maid,

From Cynthia's feet depart;
The lips he warmly must invade,
Who would possess the heart."

With that I shook off all my fears,
My better fortune try'd ;

And Cynthia gave what she for years
Had foolishly deny`d.

ON

A YOUNG LADY'S GOING TO TOWN

IN THE SPRING.

ONE night unhappy Celadon,

Beneath a friendly myrtle's shade, With folded arms and eyes cast down,

Gently repos'd his love-sick head:

Whilst Thyrsis, sporting on the neighbouring plain, Thus heard the discontented youth complain:

"Ask not the cause why sickly flowers
Faintly recline their drooping heads;
As fearful of approaching showers,

They strive to hide them in their beds,
Grieving with Celadon they downward grow,
And feel with him a sympathy of woe.
"Chloris will go; the cruel fair,
Regardless of her dying swain,
Leaves him to languish, to despair,
And murmur out in sighs his pain.
The fugitive to fair Augusta flies,

To make new slaves, and gain new victories."

So restless monarchs, though possess'd
Of all that we call state or power,
Fancy themselves but meanly blest,
Vainly ambitious still of more.

Round the wide world impatiently they roam,
Not satisfy'd with private sway at home.

WHEN THE CAT IS AWAY,
THE MICE MAY PLAY.

A FABLE, INSCRIBED TO DR. SWIFT.
PROBABLY BY MR. PRIOR.

In domibus Mures avido dente omnia captant:
In domibus Fures avida mente omnia raptant.

A LADY once (so stories say)

By rats and mice infested,

With gins and traps long sought to slay
The thieves; but still they scap'd away,
And daily her molested.

The hints of this and the following fable appear to have originated from the fable of the Old Lady and her Cats, printed in the General Postscript, Nov. 7, 1709. They have been both ascribed to Dr. Swift. N.

Great havoc 'mongst her cheese was made,

And much the loss did grieve her:
At length Grimalkin to her aid
She call'd, (no more of cats afraid)
And begg'd him to relieve her.
Soon as Grimalkin came in view,
The vermin back retreated;
Grimalkin swift as lightning flew,
Thousands of mice he daily slew,

Thousands of rats defeated.

Ne'er cat before such glory won;
All people did adore him :
Grimalkin far all cats out-shone,
And in his lady's favour none
Was then preferr'd before him.
Pert Mrs. Abigail alone

Envy'd Grimalkin's glory:
Her favourite lap-dog now was grown
Neglected; him she did bemoan,
And rav'd like any Tory.

She cannot bear, she swears she won't,
To see the cat regarded;

But firmly is resolv'd upon 't,
And vows, that, whatso'er comes on 't,
She'll have the cat discarded.

She begs, she storms, she fawns, she frets, (Her arts are all employ'd)

And tells her lady, in a pet,
Grimalkin cost her more in meat
Than all the rats destroy'd.

At length this spiteful waiting-maid
Produc'd a thing amazing;
The favourite cat's a victim made,
To satisfy this prating jade,

And fairly turn'd a-grazing.

Now lap dog is again restor'd
Into his lady's favour;
Sumptuously kept at bed and board,
And he (so Nab has given her word)

Shall from all vermin save her.

Nab much exults at this success,

And overwhelm'd with joy,

Her lady fondly does caress,
And tells her, Fubb can do no less
Than all her foes destroy.

But vain such hopes; the mice that fled
Return, now Grim's discarded;
Whilst Fubb till ten, on silken bed,
Securely lolls his drowsy head,

And leaves cheese unregarded.
Nor rats nor mice the lap-dog fear,
Now uncontroll'd their theft is:
And whatsoe'er the vermin spare,
Nab and her dog betwixt them share, }
Nor-pie nor pippin left is.

Mean while, to cover their deceit,

At once, and slander Grim ;
Nab says, the cat comes, out of spite,
To rob her lady every night,
So lays it all on him.
Nor corn secure in garret high,

Nor cheesecake safe in closet;
The cellars now unguarded lie,
On every shelf the vermin prey;
And still Grimalkin does it.

"I am a cat of honour."-" Stay!"
Quoth she, no longer parley;
Whate'er you did in battle slay,
By law of arms, became your prey:
I hope you won it fairly.

"Of this we'll grant you stand acquit,
But not of your outrages:
Tell me, perfidious! was it fit
To make my cream a perquisite,
And steal, to mend your wages?

"So flagrant is thy insolence,

So vile thy breach of trust is, That longer with thee to dispense, Were want of power, or want of sense→ Here, Towzer!-do him justice."

SONGS,

SET TO MUSIC BY THE MOST EMINENT MASTERS,

THE WIDOW AND HER CAT:
A FABLE".

A WIDOW kept a favourite cat,

At first a gentle creature;
But, when he was grown sleek and fat,
With many a mouse, and many a rat,
He soon disclos'd his nature.

The fox and he were friends of old,
Nor could they now be parted;
They nightly slunk to rob the fold,
Devour'd the lambs, the fleeces sold;
And puss grew lion-hearted.

He scratch'd the maid, he stole the cream,
He tore her best lac'd pinner;

Nor Chanticleer upon the beam,

Nor chick, nor duckling, 'scapes, when Grim Invites the fox to dinner.

The dame full wisely did decree,

For fear he should dispatch more,
That the false wretch should worried be;
But, in a saucy manner, he

Thus speech'd it like a Lechmere3:
"Must I, against all right and law,
Like pole-cat vile be treated?
I, who so long with tooth and claw,
Have kept domestic mice in awe,
And foreign foes defeated!

"Your golden pippins, and your pies,
How oft have I defended!
'Tis true, the pinner, which you prize,
I tore in frolic; to your eyes
I never harm intended,

? In Tindal's Continuation of Rapin, XVII. 434, this fable is said to be by Prior or Swift. In Boyer's Political State, 1720, p. 519, where it is applied to the duke of Marlborough, it is said to be by Swift or Prior. N.

'The celebrated lawyer. N

I. SET BY MR. ABEL.

READING ends in melancholy;

Wine breeds vices and diseases; Wealth is but care, and love but folly; Only friendship truly pleases.

My wealth, my books, my flask, my Molly: Farewell all, if friendship ceases.

II. SET BY MR. PURCELL.

WHITHER Would my passion run?
Shall I fly her, or pursue her?
Losing her, I am undone ;

Yet would not gain her, to undo her.

Ye tyrants of the human breast,

Love and Reason! cease your war, And order Death to give me rest; So each will equal triumph share.

III. SET BY MR. DE FESCH.

STREPHONETTA, why d'ye fly me,
With such rigour in your eyes?
Oh! 'tis cruel to deny me,

Since your charms I so much prize. But I plainly see the reason,

Why in vain I you pursued; Her to gain 'twas out of season, Who before the chaplain woo'd.

IV. SET BY MR. SMITH.

COME, Weep no more, for 'tis in vain; Torment not thus your pretty heart: Think, Flavia, we may meet again,

As well as, that we now must part. You sigh and weep; the gods neglect That precious dew your eyes let fall; Our joy and grief with like respect They mind; and that is, not at all,