What matters, if unblest in love,
How long or short my life will prove?
To gratify what low desire,

Should I with needless haste inquire,
How great, how wealthy, I shall be?
Oh! what is wealth or power to me!
If I am happy, or undone,
It must proceed from you alone.

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A GREEK EPIGRAM IMITATED.

HEN hungry wolves had trespass'd on

the fold,

And the robb'd shepherd his sad story

told;

"Call in Alcides," said a crafty priest;

"Give him one half, and he'll secure the rest.”
No! said the shepherd, if the Fates decree,
By ravaging my flock, to ruin me,

To their commands I willingly resign,

Power is their character, and patience mine; Though, troth! to me there seems but little odds, Who prove the greatest robbers, wolves or gods! 10

TO A FRIEND ON HIS NUPTIALS.

HEN Jove lay blest in his Alcmana's charms,

Three nights, in one, he prest her in
his arms;

The sun lay set, and conscious nature strove
To shade her god, and to prolong his love.
From that auspicious night Alcides came,
What less could rise from Jove, and such a dame?
May this auspicious night with that compare,
Nor less the joys, nor less the rising heir;
He strong as Jove, she like Alcmæna fair!

THE WANDERING PILGRIM,

HUMBLY ADDRESSED TO SIR THOMAS FRANKLAND,

BART. POST-MASTER, AND PAYMASTER

GENERAL TO QUEEN ANNE.

ZILL PIGGOT* must to Coxwould+ go,
To live, alas! in want,

W

Unless Sir Thomas say, No, no;

Th' allowance is too scant.

This merry petition was written to obtain the porter's

place for Will Piggot.

† Twelve miles north, beyond the city of York.

The gracious knight full well does weet,
Ten farthings ne'er will do

To keep a man each day in meat,
Some bread to meat is due.

A Rechabite poor Will must live,
And drink of Adam's ale,
Pure element no life can give,
Or mortal soul regale.

Spare diet, and spring-water clear,
Physicians hold are good;
Who diets thus, need never fear
A fever in the blood.

Gra'mercy, Sirs, y'are in the right,
Prescriptions all can sell,

But he that does not eat can't sh
Or piss if good drinks fail.

But pass-the Esculapian crew,
Who eat and quaff the best,
They seldom miss to bake and brew,
Or lin to break their fast.

Could Yorkshire-tyke but do the same,
Then he like them might thrive;
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel dame!
To starve thou dost him drive.

In Will's old Master's plenteous days,
His memory e'er be blest!

What need of speaking in his praise?
His goodness stands confest.

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20

At his fam'd gate stood Charity,
In lovely sweet array;
Ceres and Hospitality

Dwelt there both night and day.

But, to conclude, and be concise,
Truth must Will's voucher be,
Truth never yet went in disguise,
For naked still is she.

There is but one, but one alone,
Can set the pilgrim free,

And make him cease to pine and moan;

O Frankland! it is thee.

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.

40

VENUS'S ADVICE TO THE MUSES.

HUS to the Muses spoke the Cyprian

dame;

"Adorn my altars, and revere my name. My son shall else assume his potent darts, Twang goes 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."

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CUPID TURNED PLOUGHMAN.

FROM MOSCHUS.

IS 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.

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