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UPON THIS PASSAGE IN THE
* Les Allemans ne se soucient pas quel Win ils boivent pourveu que ce seat Win, ni quel Latin ils parlent pourveu que ce soit Latin.'
WHEN you with High-Dutch Heeren dine,
Expect false Latin, and stummed wine.
They never taste who always drink;
They always talk, who never think.
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY,
FIVE YEARS OLD, MDCCIV., THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY.
1 LORDs, knights, and squires, the numerous band,
That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters,
Were summoned by her high command,
To show their passions by their letters.
2 My pen among the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read,
Should dart their kindling fires, and look
The power they have to be obeyed.
3 Nor quality, nor reputation,
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
Dear five years old befriends my passion,
And I may write till she can spell.
4 For, while she makes her silkworms beds
With all the tender things I swear;
Whilst all the house my passion reads,
In papers round her baby hair;
5 She may receive and own my flame, For, though the strictest prudes should know it,
She’ll pass for a most virtuous dame,
And I for an unhappy poet.
6 Then too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends;
She’ll give me leave to write, I fear,
And we shall still continue friends.
7 For, as our different ages move,
'Tis so ordained, (would Fate but mend it!)
That I shall be past making love,
When she begins to comprehend it.
1 THE sturdy man, if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns;
The subtle woman, if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.
2 Though he, for all his boast, is forced to yield,
Though she can always keep the field;
He vaunts his conquest, she conceals her shame.
How partial is the voice of Fame!
1 WHILST I am scorched with hot desire,
In vain cold friendship you return;
Your drops of pity on my fire
Alas! but make it fiercer burn.
2 Ah! would you have the flame suppressed,
That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my passion to your breast;
The rest in mine shall ever last.
THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF
oN A PIECE of WIESSEN's, whereoN were
PAINTED ALL HER GRANDSONS.
WIESSEN 1 and Nature held a long contest,
If she created, or he painted best;
With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She, still formed fairer; he, still liker drew.
In these seven brethren, they contended last,
With art increased, their utmost skill they tried,
And, both well pleased they had themselves surpassed,
The goddess triumphed, and the painter died,
That both, their skill to this vast height did raise,
Be ours the wonder, and be yours the praise; 10.
For here, as in some glass, is well descried
Only yourself thus often multiplied.
When Heaven had you and gracious Anna" made,
What more exalted beauty could it add.
Having no nobler images in store,
It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy well what it had framed before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty:
With all that world of charms, which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love; 21
His every grace, his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has yours:
If every Cecil's face had every charm,
That thought can fancy, or that Heaven can form;
Their beauties all become your beauty's due,
They are all fair, because they're all like you. 27
If every Cavendish great and charming look;
From you that air, from you the charms they took.
In their each limb your image is expressed;
But on their brow firm courage stands confessed;
There, their great father, by a strong increase,
Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece.
Thus still your beauty, in your sons, we view,
Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew;
Whoever sat, the picture still is you.
So when the parent sun, with genial beams,
Has animated many goodly gems,
He sees himself improved, while every stone,
With a resembling light, reflects a sun. 40
So when great Rhea many births had given,
Such as might govern earth, and people Heaven;
Her glory grew diffused, and fuller known,
She saw the deity in every son;
And to what God soe'er men altars raised,
Honouring the offspring, they the mother praised.
In short-lived charms let others place their joys,
Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys;
Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface,
'Tis still renewed, and stamped in all your race. 50
Ah! Wiessen, had thy art been so refined,
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind;
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give;
To men unborn and ages yet to live:
'Twould still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what time, or spite, or fate, could do;
Till thine confused with Nature's pieces lie,
And Cavendish's name and Cecil's honour die.
A FABLE FROM PHAEDRUS.
To THE AUTHOR OF THE MEDLEY,' 1710.
THE fox an actor's vizard found,
And peered, and felt, and turned it round;
Then threw it in contempt away,
And thus old Phaedrus heard him say:
“What noble part canst thou sustain,
Thou specious head without a brain!’
1 I, My dear, was born to-day,
So all my jolly comrades say;
They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth.
Little, alas! my comrades know,
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn;
Better I had ne'er been born;
I wish to die even whilst I say,
I, my dear, was born to-day.
2 I, my dear, was born to-day,
Shall I salute the rising ray,
Well-spring of all my joy and woe,
Clotilda,” thou alone dost know!
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my car;
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?