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CUPID'S PROMISE,
A FRENCH SONG PARAPHRASED.

1 SoFT Cupid, wanton, amorous boy,
The other day, moved with my lyre,
In flattering accents spoke his joy,
And uttered thus his fond desire.

2 Oh! raise thy voice! one song I ask;

Touch then thy harmonious string; To Thyrsis easy is the task,

Who can so sweetly play and sing.

3 Two kisses from my mother dear, Thyrsis, thy due reward shall be; None, none, like beauty's queen is fair, Paris has vouched this truth for me.

4 I straight replied, Thou know'st alone
That brightest Chloe rules my breast,
I'll sing thee two instead of one,
If thou'lt be kind, and make me blest.

5 One kiss from Chloe's lips, no more
I crave; he promised me success:
I played with all my skill and power,
My glowing passion to express.
6 But oh! my Chloe, beauteous maid!
Wilt thou the wished reward bestow !
Wilt thou make good what love has said,
And, by thy grant, his power show !

TO THE EARL OF OXFORD.

WRITTEN EXTEMPORE, IN LADY oxFord's STUDY., 1717.

PEN, ink, and wax, and paper send
To the kind wife, the lovely friend;
Smiling, bid her freely write
What her happy thoughts indite;
Of virtue, goodness, peace, and love,
Thoughts which angels may approve.

A LETTER

TO THE HONOURABLE LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH
HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD.

My noble, lovely, little Peggy,
Let this my first epistle beg ye,
At dawn of morn and close of even,
To lift your heart and hands to heaven.
In double beauty say your prayer;
Our Father first,-then Notre Pere:
And, dearest child, along the day,
In everything you do and say,
Obey and please my lord and lady,
So God shall love, and angels aid ye. 10
If to these precepts you attend,
No second letter need I send,
And so I rest your constant friend.

LINES 1

WRITTEN UNDER THE PRINT OF TOM BRITTON THE SMALLCOAL-MAN, PAINTED BY MR WOOLASTON.

THOUGH doomed to small coal, yet to arts allied,
Rich without wealth, and famous without pride;
Music's best patron, judge of books and men,
Beloved and honoured 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 saved,
Had Kneller painted, and had Vertue graved.

TRUTH TOLD AT LAST. SAYS Pontius in rage, contradicting his wife, ‘You never yet told me one truth in your life.’ Vexed Pontia no way could this thesis allow, ‘You’re a cuckold, says she; do I tell you truth now?'

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, Ranged his unruly sighs, and set his grief; Taught him what accents had the power to move, And always gained him pity, sometimes love. But oh! what pangs torment the destined 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! 10

* A remarkable man, who, although he carried small coal about in a wheelbarrow, was an excellent musician.--Sir John Hawkins' History of Music, vol. v. p. 70.

AN EPISTLE, MDCCXVI.

I PRAY, good Lady Harley, let Jonathan know,
How long you intend to live incognito.
Your humble servant,
ELKANAH SETTLE.

ANOTHER EPISTLE.

I PRAY Lady Harriot the time to assign
When she shall receive a turkey and chine;
That a body may come to St James' to dine.

TRUE'S EPITAPH,

IF wit or honesty could save
Our mouldering ashes from the grave,
This stone had still remained unmarked,
I still writ prose, True still have barked.
But envious fate has claimed 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, IU
He owned the power, and loved the queen.
By long obedience he confessed
That serving her was to be blessed.—
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 believed were Mary's foes:
Ne'er skulked from whence his sovereign led him,

Or snarled against the hand that fed him.— 20
Read this, ye statesmen now in favour,
And mend your own, by True's behaviour!

EPIGRAM.

To Richmond and Peterburgh, Mat gave his letters,

And thought they were safe in the hands of his betters.

How happened it then that the packets were lost?

These were knights of the garter, not knights of the post.

THE WICEROY.

A BALLAD.
To THE TUNE OF LADY ISABELLA's TRAGEDY.
1 OF Nero, tyrant, petty king,"
Who heretofore did reign
In famed Hibernia, I will sing,
And in a ditty plain.

2 He hated was by rich and poor,
For reasons you shall hear;

So ill he exercised his power,
That he himself did fear.

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

4 He, with a haughty impious nod,
Would curse and dogmatize;
Nor fearing either man or God:

Gold he did idolize.

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

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