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Thank you, great gods, the woman says:
Oh! may your altars ever blaze !
A Ladle for our silver-dish
Is what I want, is what I wish.
A Ladle ! cries the man, a Ladle !
Odzooks, Corisca, you have pray’d ill;
What should be great, you turn to farce ;
I wish the Ladle in your a-.
With equal grief and shame, my
The sequel of the Tale pursues ;
The Ladle fell into the room,
And stuck in old Corisca's bum.
Our couple weep two wishes past,
And kindly join to form the last ;
To ease the woman's aukward pain,
And the Ladle out again.
Is prais’d for arms, or lov'd for arts :
His head aches for a coronet :
And who is bless’d that is not great?
Some sense, and more estate, kind Heaven
To this well-lotted peer has given :
What then? He must have rule and sway:
And all is wrong, till he's in play.
The miler must inake
And dares not touch the hoarded fum;
The fickly dotard wants a wife,
To draw off his lait dregs of life.
Against our peace we arm our will :
Amidst our plenty, something still
For horses, houses, pictures, planting,
To thee, to me, to him, is wanting.
The cruel something unpossess'd
Corrodes, and leavens all the rest.
That something, if we could obtain,
Would soon create a future pain :
And to the coffin, from the cradle,
"Tis all a Wish, and all a Ladle.
Written at P ARIS, 1700. In the Beginning of Robe's GEOGRAPHY,
F all that Williain rules, or Robe
Describes, great Rhéa, of thy globe ;
When or on post-horse, or in chaise,
With much expence, and little ease,
My destin'd miles 1 shall have gone,
By Thames or Maese, by Po or Rhone,
And found no foot of earth my own ;
Great Mother, let me once be able
To have à garden, house, and stable;
That I may read, and ride, and plant,
Superior to desire or want ;
And as health fails, and years increase,
Sit down, and think, and die, in peace.
Oblige thy favourite undertakers
To throw me in but twenty acres :
This number sure they may allow ;
For pasture ten, and ten for plow :
'Tis all that I could wish or hope,
For me and John, and Nell and Crop.
Then, as thou wilt, dispose the rest
(And let not Fortune spoil the jest)
To those who, at the market-rate,
Can barter honour for estate.
Now, if thou grant'st me iny request,
To make thy votary truly blest,
Let curst revenge and saucy pride
To some bleak rock far off be tied;
Nor e'er approach my rural seat,
To tempt me to be base and great.
And, Goddess, this kind office done,
Charge Venus to command her son
(Where-ever else she lets him rove)
To thun my house, and field, and grove:
Peace cannot dwell with Hate or Love.
Hear, gracious Rhéa, what I say :
And thy petitioner shall pray.
Written in the Beginning of ME ZERA Y's
History of FRANCE.
WHATE'ER thy countrymen have done,
By law and wit, by sword and gun,
In thee is faithfully recited :
And all the living world, that view
Thy work, give thee the praises due,
At once instructed and delighted.
Yet for the fame of all these deeds
What beggar in the Invalides,
With lameness broke, with blindness smitten,
Wish'd ever decently to die,
To have been either Mezeray,
any monarch he has written?
It 's strange, dear author, yet it true is,
That, down from Pharamond to Louis,
All cover life, yet call it pain;
All feel the ill, yet shun the cure :
Can fenfe this paradox endure ?
Resolve me, Cambray, or Fontaine.
The man, in graver tragick known
(Though his best part long since was done),
Still on the stage desires to tarry : And he, who play'd the Harlequin, After the jest still loads the scene,
Unwilling to retire, though weary.
Written in the Nouveaux Interêts des
PRINCES de l'EUROPE,
BLEST be the princes, who have fought
For pompous names, or wide dominion ;
Since by their error we are taught,
That happiness is but opinion!
ADRIANI MORIENTIs ad Animam Suam.
ANIMULA vagula, blandula,
Hofpes, comefque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in loca,
Pallidula, rigida, nudula ?
Nec, ut foles, dabis joca.
By Monsieur FONTENELLE. MA petite ame, ma mignonne, Tu t'en vas donc, ma fille, & Dieu fache ou tù vas : Tu
pars seulette, nuë, & tremblotante, helas ! Que deviendra ton humeur folichonne ? Que deviendront tant de jolis ébats ?
POOR, little, pretty, fluttering thing,
Must we no longer live together?
And dost thou prune thy trembling wing,
To take thy flight thou know'st not wlither?
Thy humourous vein, thy pleasing folly,
Lics all neglected, all forgot :
And, penfive, wavering, melancholy,
Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know's not what,