Indeed, I sometimes hammer'd out a line,
Without connection, as without design.
One morn upon the princess this I writ,
An epigram that boasts more truth than wit.
"The pomp of titles easy faith might shake,
She scorn'd an empire for religion's sake:
For this on Earth the British crown was given,
And an immortal crown decreed in Heaven."
Again, while George's virtues rais'd my thought,
The following lines prophetic Fancy wrought.
"Methinks I see some bard, whose heavenly rage
Shall rise in song, and warm a future age;
Look back through time, and, wrapt in wonder,
The glorious series of the Brunswick race. [trace
"From the first George these godlike kings de-
scend,

A line which only with the world shall end.
The next a generous prince, renown'd in arms,
And bless'd, long bless'd, in Carolina's charms;
From these the rest. 'Tis thus, secure in peace,
We plow the fields, and reap the year's increase:
Now Commerce, wealthy goddess, rears her head,
And bids Britannia's fleets their canvass spread;
Unnumber'd ships the peopled ocean hide,
And wealth returns with each revolving tide."

Here paus'd the sullen Muse; in haste I dress'd,
And through the crowd of needy courtiers press'd;
Though unsuccessful, happy whilst I see
Those eyes, that glad a nation, shine on me.

EPISTLE II.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE EARL OF BURLINGTON.

A JOURNEY TO EXETER.
1716.

WHILE YOU, my lord, bid stately piles ascend,
Or in your Chiswick bowers enjoy your friend;
Where Pope unloads the boughs within his reach,
The purple vine, blue plum, and blushing peach;
I journey far.-You knew fat bards might tire,
And, mounted, sent me forth your trusty squire.

"Twas on the day when city-dames repair
To take their weekly dose of Hyde-park air;
When forth we trot: no carts the road infest,
For still on Sundays country horses rest.
Thy gardens, Kensington, we leave unseen;
Thro' Hammersmith jog on to Turnham-green.
That Turnham-green, which dainty pigeons fed,
But feeds no more: for Solomon is dead.
Three dusty miles reach Brentford's tedious town,
For dirty streets and white-legg'd chickens known.
Thence, o'er wide shrubby heaths and furrow'd
lanes,
[Staines.
We come where Thames divides the meads of
We ferry'd o'er; for late the winter's flood
Shook her frail bridge, and tore her piles of wood.
Prepar'd for war, now Bagshot-heath we cross,
Where broken gamesters oft repair their loss.
At Hartley-row the foaming bit we prest,
While the fat landlord welcom'd every guest.
Supper was ended, healths the glasses crown'd,
Our host extoll'd his wine at every round;
Relates the justices late meeting there,
How many bottles drank, and what their cheer;

A man once famous for breeding pigeons.

What lords had been his guests in days of yore,
And prais'd their wisdom much, their drinking

Let travellers the morning-vigils keep: [more.
The Morning rose, but we lay fast asleep.
Twelve tedious miles we bore the sultry Sun,
And Popham-lane was scarce in sight by one:
The straggling village harbour'd thieves of old,
'Twas here the stage-coach'd lass resign'd her gold;
That gold which had in London purchas'd gowns,
And sent her home a belle to country towns.
But robbers haunt no more the neighbouring wood:
Here unown'd infants find their daily food;
For, should the maiden-mother nurse her son,
'Twould spoil her match when her good name is
[gone.
Our jolly hostess nineteen children bore,
Nor fail'd her breast to suckle nineteen more.
Be just, ye prudes, wipe off the long arrear:
Be virgins still in town, but mothers here.

Sutton we pass, and leave her spacious down,
And with the setting Sun reach Stockbridge town.
O'er our parch'd tongue the rich metheglin glides,
And the red dainty trout our knife divides.
Sad melancholy every visage wears;
What! no election come in seven long years!
Of all our race of mayors, shall Snow alone1

Be by sir Richard's dedication known?
Our streets no more with tides of ale shall float,
Nor coblers feast three years upon one vote.

Next morn, twelve miles led o'er th' unbounded
plain,

Where the cloak'd shepherd guides his fleecy train.
No leafy bowers a noon-day shelter lend,
Nor from the chilly dews at night defend :
With wondrous art, he counts the straggling flock,
And by the Sun informs you what's o'clock.
How are our shepherds fall'n from ancient days!
No Amaryllis chants alternate lays!
From her no listening Echos learn to sing,
Nor with his reed the jocund valleys ring.

Here sheep the pasture hide, there harvests
See Sarum's steeple o'er yon hill ascend; [bend,
Our horses faintly trot beneath the heat,
And our keen stomachs know the hour to eat.

Who can forsake thy walls, and not admire
The proud cathedral, and the lofty spire?
What sempstress has not prov'd thy scissars good?
From hence first came th' intriguing riding-hood.
Amid three boarding-schools well stock'd with
misses 2,

Shall three knight-errants starve for want of kisses ?
O'er the green turf the miles slide swift away,
And Blandford ends the labours of the day.
The morning rose; the supper reckoning paid,
And our due fees discharg'd to man and maid,
The ready ostler near the stirrup stands,
And, as we mount, our halfpence load his hands.

Now the steep hill fair Dorchester o'erlooks,
Border'd by meads, and wash'd by silver brooks.

Sir Richard Steele, member for Stockbridge, wrote a treatise, called The Importance of Dunkirk considered, and dedicated it to Mr. John Snow, bailiff of Stockbridge. Gay. Dr. Swift wrote a humorous treatise in answer to it, called The Importance of the Guardian considered, in a second letter to the bailiff of Stockbridge, 1713. N.

2 There are three boarding-schools in this town Gay.

Here sleep my two companions eyes supprest,
And, propt in elbow-chairs, they snoring rest:
I weary sit, and with my pencil trace

Their painful postures, and their eyeless face;
Then dedicate each glass to some fair name,
And on the sash the diamond scrawls my flame.
Now o'er true Roman way our horses sound,
Grævius would kneel, and kiss the sacred ground.
On either side low fertile valleys lie,

The distant prospects tire the travelling eye.
Through Bridport's stony lanes our route we take,
And the proud steep descend to Morcombe's lake.
As hearses pass'd, our landlord robb'd the pall,
And with the mournful 'scutcheon hung his hall.
On unadulterate wine we here regale,
And strip the lobster of his scarlet mail.

We climb'd the hills, when starry Night arose,
And Axminster affords a kind repose.
The maid, subdued by fees, her trunk unlocks,
And gives the cleanly aid of dowlass-smocks.
Mean time our shirts her busy fingers rub,
While the soap lathers o'er the foaming tub.
If women's geer such pleasing dreams incite,
Lend us your smocks, ye damsels, every night!
We rise, our beards demand the barber's art;
A female enters, and performs the part.
The weighty golden chain adorns her neck,
And three gold rings her skilful hand bedeck:
Smooth o'er our chin her easy fingers move,
Soft as when Venus stroak'd the beard of Jove.
Now from the steep, midst scatter'd farms and
groves,

Our eye through Honiton's fair valley roves.
Behind us soon the busy town we leave,
Where finest lace industrious lasses weave.
Now swelling clouds roll'd on; the rainy load
Stream'd down our hats, and smok'd along the

Our

road;

When (O blest sight!) a friendly sign we spy'd,
spurs are slacken'd from the horses side;
For sure a civil host the house commands,
Upon whose sign this courteous motto stands:
"This is the ancient hand, and eke the pen ;
Here is for horses hay, and meat for men."
How rhyme would flourish, did each son of fame
Know his own genius, and direct his flame!
Then he, that could not epic flights rehearse,
Might sweetly mourn in elegiac verse.
But, were his Muse for elegy unfit,
Perhaps a distich might not strain his wit;
If epigram offend, his harmless lines

[eyes,

Might in gold letters swing on ale-house signs.
Then Hobbinol might propagate his bays,
And Tuttle-fields record his simple lays;
Where rhymes like these might lure the nurses'
While gaping infants squawl for farthing pies:
"Treat here, ye shepherds blithe, your damsels
sweet,

For pies and cheesecakes are for damsels meet."
Then Maurus in his proper sphere might shine,
And these proud numbers grace great William's
sign:

"This is the man, this the Nassovian, whom
I nam'd the brave deliverer to come 1."
But now the driving gales suspend the rain,
We
We mount our steeds, and Devon's city gain.
Hail, happy native land!--but I forbear
What other counties must with envy hear.

! Blackmore's Prince Arthur, book v.

EPISTLE III

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.

1717.

PULTENEY, methinks you blame my breach of
What! cannot Paris one poor page afford? [word;
Yes, I can sagely, when the times are past,
Laugh at those follies which I strove to taste,
And each amusement, which we shar'd, review,
Pleas'd with mere talking, since I talk to you.
But how shall I describe, in humble prose,
Their balls, assemblies, operas, and beaux? [aid,
In prose?" you cry:
"oh, no,
the Muse must
And leave Parnassus for the Tuilleries' shade:
Shall he (who late Britannia's city trod,
And led the draggled Muse, with pattens shod,
Through dirty lanes, and alleys' doubtful ways)
Refuse to write, when Paris asks his lays !"

66

Well then, I'll try. Descend, ye beauteous Nine,
In all the colours of the rainbow shine,
Let sparkling stars your neck and ear adorn,
Lay on the blushes of the crimson Morn;
So may ye balls and gay assemblies grace,
And at the opera claim the foremost place.

Travellers should ever fit expression choose,
Nor with low phrase the lofty theme abuse.
When they describe the state of castern lords,
Pomp and magnificence should swell their words;
And when they paint the serpent's scaly pride,
Their lines should hiss, their numbers smoothly
But they, unmindful of poetic rules, [slide;
Describe alike Mockaws and Great Moguls.
Dampier would thus, without ill-meaning satire,
Dress forth in simple style the Petit-maitre :
"In Paris, there's a race of animals
(I've seen them at their operas and balls):
They stand erect, they dance whene'er they walk,
Monkeys in action, perroquets in talk;
They're crown'd with feathers, like the cockatoo,
And, like camelions, daily change their hue;
From patches justly plac'd they borrow graces,
And with vermilion lacquer o'er their faces.
This custom, as we visibly discern,
They, by frequenting ladies' toilettes, learn."
Thus might the traveller easy truth impart.
Into the subject let me nobly start.

How happy lives the man, how sure to charm,
Whose knot embroider'd flutters down his arm!
On him the ladies cast the yielding glance,
Sigh in his songs, and languish in his dance :
While wretched is the wit, contemn'd forlorn,
Whose gummy hat no scarlet plumes adorn;
No broider'd flowers his worsted ankle grace,
Nor cane emboss'd with gold directs his pace;
No lady's favour on his sword is hung;
What though Apollo dictate from his tongue,
His wit is spiritless and void of grace,
Who wants th' assurance of brocade and lace.
While the gay fop genteelly talks of weather,
The fair in raptures doat upon his feather;
Like a court-lady though he write and spell,
His minuet-step was fashion'd by Marcell';
He dresses, fences. What avails to know?
For women choose their men, like silks, for show

A famous dancing-master.

And Love in couples peopled every shade.
But, since at court the rural taste is lost,
What mighty sums have velvet couches cost!
Sometimes the Tuilleries' gaudy walk I love,
Where I through crowds of rustling mantuas

Is this the thing," you cry, "that Paris boasts? | The nightly scene of joy the Park was made,
Is this the thing renown'd among our toasts?
For such a fluttering sight we need not roam;
Our own assemblies shine with these at home."
Let us into the field of beauty start;
Beauty's a theme that ever warm'd my heart,
Think not, ye fair, that I the sex accuse :
How shall I spare you, prompted by the Muse?
(The Muses all are prudes!) She rails, she frets,
Amidst this sprightly nation of coquettes :
Yet let not us their loose coquetry blame;
Women of every nation are the same.

You ask me, if Parisian dames, like ours,
With rattling dice prophane the Sunday's hours;
If they the gamester's pale-ey'd vigils keep,
And stake their honour while their husbands
sleep?

Yes, sir; like English toasts, the dames of France
Will risque their income on a single chance.
Nannette last night a tricking pharaon play'd,
The cards the Taillier's sliding hand obey'd:
To-day her neck no brilliant circle wears,
Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears.
Why does old Chloris an assembly hold?
Chloris each night divides the sharper's gold.
Corinna's cheek with frequent losses burns,
And no bold Trente le va her fortune turns.
Ah, too rash virgin! where's thy virtue flown?
She pawns her person for the sharper's loan.
Yet who with justice can the fair upbraid,
Whose debts of honour are so duly paid?

But let me not forget the toilette's cares,
Where art each morn the languid cheek repairs:
This red's too pale, nor gives a distant grace;
Madame to-day puts on her opera face;

From this we scarce extract the milk-maid's bloom:
Bring the deep dye that warms across the room:
Now flames her check, so strong her charms pre-
vail,

That on her gown the silken rose looks pale
Not but that France some native beauty boasts,
Clermont and Charolois might grace our toasts.
When the sweet-breathing Spring unfolds the buds,
Love flies the dusty town for shady woods.
Then Tottenham fields with roving beauty swarm,
And Hampstead balls the city virgin warm?
Then Chelsea's meads o'erhear perfidious vows,
And the prest grass defrauds the grazing cows.
'Tis here the same, but in a higher sphere,
For ev'n court-ladies sin in open air.
What cit with a gallant would trust his spouse
Beneath the tempting shade of Greenwich boughs?
What peer of France would let his dutchess rove,
Where Boulogne's closest woods invite to love?
But here no wife can blast her husband's fame,
Cuckold is grown an honourable name.
Stretch'd on the grass, the shepherd sighs his pain;
And on the grass what shepherd sighs in vain?
On Chloe's lap here Damon, laid along,

Melts with the languish of her amorous song;
There Iris flies Palamon through the glade,
Nor trips by chance-till in the thickest shade;
Here Celimene defends her lips and breast,
For kisses are by struggling closer prest:
Alexis there with eager flame grows bold,
Nor can the nymph his wanton fingers hold:
Be wise, Alexis; what, so near the road!
Hark, a coach rolls, and husbands are abroad!
.Such were our pleasures in the days of yore,
When amorous Charles Britannia's sceptre bore;

rove.

As here from side to side my eyes I cast,
And gaz'd on all the glittering train that past,
Sudden a fop steps forth before the rest;

knew the bold embroidery of his vest.
He thus accosts me with familiar air,
"Parbleu ! on a fait cet habit en Angleterre !
Quelle manche! ce galon est grossiérement range;
Voila quelque chose de fort beau et degagé !"
This said on his red heel he turns, and then
Hums a soft minuet, and proceeds again :
"Well; now you've Paris seen, you'll frankly

own

Your boasted London seems a country town.
Has Christianity yet reach'd your nation?
Are churches built? Are masquerades in fashion?
Do daily soups your dinners introduce?
Are music, snuff, and coaches, yet in use?"
"Pardon me, sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather politesse from courts abroad.
Like you, our courtiers keep a numerous train
To lead their coach, and tradesmen dun in vain,
Nor has religion left us in the lurch;
And, as in France, our vulgar crowd the church:
Our ladies too support the masquerade;
The sex by nature love th' intriguing trade."
Straight the vain fop in ignorant raptures cries,
"Paris the barbarous world will civilize!"

Pray, sir, point out among the passing band
The present beauties who the town command "
"See yonder dame; strict virtue chills her breast,
Mark in her eye demure the prude profest ;
That frozen bosom native fire must want,
Which boasts of constancy to one gallant!
This next the spoils of fifty lovers wears,
Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears
The necklace Florio's generous flame bestow'd,
Clitander's sparkling gems her finger load;
But now her charms grow cheap by constant use,
She sins for scarfs, clock'd-stockings, knots, and

shoes.

This next, with sober gait and serious leer,
Wearies her knees with morn and evening prayer;
She scorns th' ignoble love of feeble pages,
But with three abbots in one night engages.
This with the cardinal her nights employs,
Where holy sinews consecrate her joys.
Why have I promis'd things beyond my power?
Five assignations wait me at this hour!
The sprightly cou tess first my visit claims,
| To-morrow shall indulge inferior dames.
Pardon me, sir, that thus I take my leave;
Gay Florimella slily twitch'd my sleeve."

Adieu, Monsieur!"-The opera hour draws near.
Not see the opera! all the world is there;
Where on the stage th' embroider'd youth of

France

In bright array attract the female glance;
This languishes, this struts, to show his mien,
And not a gold-clock'd stocking moves unseen.
But hark! the full orchestra strike the strings,
The hero struts, and the whole audience sings.
My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarse and confus'd, like Babel's mingled sound.