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Oh! save him from a dreary way,
To Coxwould he must hie,
Bereft of thee, he wends astray,
At Coxwould he must die.
Oh! let him in thy hall but stand,
And wear a porter's gown,
Duteous to what thou mayst command,
Thus William's wishes crown.
VENUS’S ADVICE TO THE MUSES.
THUs to the Muses spoke the Cyprian dame;
“Adorn my altars, and revere my name.
My son shall else assume his potent darts,
| Twanggoes the bow, my girls; have at your hearts?”
The Muses answer'd, “Venus, we deride
The vagrant's malice, and his mother's pride;
Send him to nymphs who sleep on Ida's shade,
To the loose dance, and wanton masquerade;
Our thoughts are settled, and intent our look,
On the instructive verse, and moral book;
On female idleness his power relies;
But, when he finds us studying hard, he flies.”
IIIs lamp, his bow, and quiver, laid aside,
A rustic wallet o'er his shoulders tied:
Sly Cupid, always on new mischief bent,
To the rich field and furrow'd tillage went ;
Like any ploughman toil'd the little god,
His tune he whistled, and his wheat he sow'd;
Then sat and laugh'd, and to the skies above
Raising his eye, he thus insulted Jove:
Lay by your hail, your hurtful storms restrain,
And, as I bid you, let it shine or rain,
Else you again beneath my yoke shall bow,
Feel the sharp goad, and draw the servile plough;
What once Europa was, Nannette is now.
PONTIUS (who loves, you know, a joke,
Much better than he loves his life)
Chanc'd toother morning to provoke
The patience of a well-bred wife.
Talking of you, said he, my dear,
Two of the greatest wits in town, |
One ask'd, if that high furze of hair
Was, bona fide, all your own.
Her own most certain, t'other said;
For Nan, who knows the thing, will tell ye,
The hair was bought, the money paid,
And the receipt was sign'd Ducailly.
Pontia (that civil prudent she,
Who values wit much less than sense,
And never darts a repartee,
But purely in her own defence)
Replied, these friends of yours, my dear,
Are given extremely much to satire
But prithee, husband, let one hear
Sometimes less wit, and more good nature.
Now I have one unlucky thought,
That would have spoil'd your friend's conceit:
Some hair I have, I'm sure, unbought:
Pray bring your brother wits to see’t.
CUPID TURNED STROLLER.
AT dead of night, when stars appear,
And strong Boötes turns the bear;
When mortals sleep their cares away,
Fatigu'd with labours of the day,
Cupid was knocking at my gate;
Who's there! says I, who knocks so late,
Disturbs my dreams, and breaks my rest?
O fear not me, a harmless guest,
He said, but open, open, pray;
A foolish child, I’ve lost my way,
And wander here this moonlight night,
All wet and cold, and wanting light.
With due regard his voice I heard,
Then rose, a ready lamp prepar’d,
And saw a naked boy below,
With wings, a quiver, and a bow;
In haste Iran, unlock'd my gate,
Secure and thoughtless of my fate;
I set the child an easy chair
Against the fire, and dried his hair;
Brought friendly cups of cheerful wine,
And warm'd his little hands with mine.
All this I did with kind intent;
But he, on wanton mischief bent,
Said, Dearest friend, this bow you see,
This pretty bow belongs to me:
Observe, I pray, if all be right;
I fear the rain has spoil'd it quite.
He drew it then, and straight I found
Within my breast a secret wound.
This done, the rogue no longer staid,
But leapt away, and laughing said,
“Kind host, adieu ! we now must part;
Safe is my bow, but sick thy heart.”
PRAISING THE LADY HIN CHINBROKE.
Of thy judicious muse's sense,
Young Hinchinbroke so very proud is,
That Sacharissa and Hortense
She looks, henceforth, upon as dowdies.
Yet she to one must still submit,
To dear mamma must pay her duty,
She wonders, praising Wilmot's wit,
Thou shouldst forget his daughter's beauty.
Lys ANDER talks extremely well;
On any subject let him dwell,
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.