Tells, how this stag thro' three whole counties fled, | Foul scandal to the lying lip affords,
What rivers swam, where bay'd, and where he bled.
Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Describes the desperate chase, and all his cheats;
How in one day, beneath his furious speed,
He tir'd seven coursers of the fleetest breed;
How high the pale he leap'd, how wide the ditch,
When the hound tore the haunches of the witch'!
These stories, which descend from son to son,
The forward boy shall one day make his own.
Ah, too fond mother! think the time draws nigh,
That calls the darling from thy tender eye;
How shall his spirit brook the rigid rules,
And the long tyranny of grammar-schools?
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod,
Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod;
No, let him never feel that smart disgrace:
Why should he wiser prove than all his race?
When ripening youth with down o'ershades his chin,
And every female eye incites to sin;
And prompts the memory with injurious words.
O where is wisdom when by this o'erpower'd?
The state is censur'd, and the maid deflower'd!
And wilt thou still, O squire! brew ale so strong?
Hear then the dictates of prophetic song.
The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame)
With smacking lip shall raise his guilty flame;
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove,
Shall oft be conscious of their stolen love.
But think, Priscilla, on that dreadful time,
When pangs and watery qualms shall own thy
crime.
How wilt thou tremble when thy nipple's prest,
To see the white drops bathe thy swelling breast!
Nine moons shall publicly divulge thy shame,
And the young squire forestall a father's name.
When twice twelve times the reaper's sweeping
hand
With levell'd harvests has bestrown the land;
On fam'd St. Hubert's feast, his winding horn
Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the morn:
This memorable day his eager speed
Shall urge with bloody heel the rising steed.
O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate!
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries,
Low in the dust his groveling honour lies,
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone.
O venturous youth! thy thirst of game allay:
May'st thou survive the perils of this day!
He shall survive, and in late years be sent
To snore away debates in parliament.
The time shall come, when his more solid sense,
With nod important, shall the laws dispense;
A justice with grave justices shall sit;
He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit.
No greyhound shall attend the tenant's pace,
No rusty gun the farmer's chimney grace;
Salmons shall leave their covers void of fear,
Nor dread the thievish net or triple spear;
Poachers shall tremble at his awful name,
Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd game.
Assist me, Bacchus, and ye drunken powers,
To sing, his friendships and his midnight hours!
Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer,
Firm-cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year;
Brew'd or when Phoebus warms the fleecy sign,
Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine?
Think on the mischiefs which from hence have
sprung!
It arms with curses dire the wrathful tongue;
Methinks I see him in his hall appear,
Where the long table floats in clammy beer,
'Midst mugs and glasses shatter'd o'er the floor,
Dead drunk, his servile crew supinely snore;
Triumphant, o'er the prostrate brutes he stands,
The mighty bumper trembles in his hands;
Boldly he drinks, and, like his glorious sires,
In copious gulps of potent ale expires.
Now twenty springs had cloth'd the park with
Since Lydia knew the blossom of fifteen; [green,
No lovers now her morning hours molest,
And catch her at her toilette half-undrest;
The thundering knocker wakes the street no more,
No chairs, no coaches, crowd her silent door;
Her midnights once at cards and hazard fled,
Which now, alas! she dreams away in bed.
Around her wait Shocks, monkeys, and mockaws,
To fill the place of fops and perjur'd beaux;
In these she views the mimickry of man,
And smiles when grinning Pug gallants her fan;
When Poll repeats, the sounds deceive her ear,
(For sounds like his once told her Damon's care);
With these alone her tedious mornings pass,
Or, at the dumb devotion of her glass,
She smooths her brow, and frizzles forth her hairs,
And fancies youthful dress gives youthful airs;
With crimson wool she fixes every grace,
That not a blush can discompose her face.
Reclin'd upon her arm, she pensive sate,
And curs'd th' inconstancy of youth too late.
"O youth! O spring of life! for ever lost!
No more my name shall reign the favourite toast;
On glass no more the diamond grave my name,
And rhymes mis-spelt record a lover's flame:
Nor shall side-boxes watch my restless eyes,
And, as they catch the glance, in rows arise
With humble bows;nor white-glov'd beaux encroach
In crowds behind, to guard me to my coach:
Ah, hapless nymph! such conquests are no more;
For Chloe's now what Lydia was before!
""Tis true, this Chloe boasts the peach's bloom,
But does her nearer whisper breathe perfume?
I own, her taper shape is form'd to please:
Yet, if you saw her unconfin'd by stays!
She doubly to fifteen may make pretence;
Alike we read it in her face and sense.
Her reputation! but that never yet
Could check the freedoms of a young coquette.
Why will ye then, vain fops, her eyes believe?
Her eyes can, like your perjur'd tongues, deceive.
"What shall I do? how spend the hateful day?
At chapel shall I wear the morn away?
Who there frequents at these unmodish hours,
But ancient matrons with their frizzled towers,
The most common accident to sportsmen, to And gray religious maids? My presence there, hunt a witch in the shape of a hare.
Amid that sober train, would own despair;
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Through every Indian shop through all the Change;
Where the tall jar erects his costly pride,
With antic shapes in China's azure dy'd;
There careless lies the rich brocade unroll'd;
Here shines a cabinet with burnish'd gold:
But then remembrance will my grief renew,
'Twas there the rattling dice false Damon threw ;
The raffling dice to him decide the prize;
"Twas there he first convers'd with Chloe's eyes.
Hence sprung th' ill-fated cause of all my smart;
To me the toy he gave, to her his heart.
But soon thy perjury in the gift was found,
The shiver'd china dropt upon the ground;
Sure omen that thy vows would faithless prove;
Frail was thy present, frailer is thy love.
"O happy Poll! in wiry prison pent,
Thou ne'er hast known what love or rivals meant ;
And Pug with pleasure can his fetters bear,
Who ne'er believ'd the vows that lovers swear!
How am I curst (unhappy and forlorn)
With perjury, with love, and rival's scorn!
False are the loose coquette's inveigling airs,
False is the pompous grief of youthful heirs,
False is the cringing courtier's plighted word,
False are the dice when gamesters stamp the board,
False is the sprightly widow's public tear;
Yet these to Damon's oaths are all sincere.
"Fly from perfidious man, the sex disdain;
Let servile Chloe wear the nuptial chain.
Damon is practis'd in the modish life,
Can hate, and yet be civil to a wife.
He games; he swears; he drinks; he fights; he
Yet Chloe can believe he fondly loves.
Mistress and wife can well supply his need;
A miss for pleasure, and a wife for breed.
But Chloe's air is unconfin'd and gay,
And can, perhaps, an injur'd bed repay;
Perhaps her patient temper can behold
The rival of her love adorn'd with gold.
Powder'd with diamonds, free from thought and
A husband's sullen humours she can bear. [care,
"Why are these sobs? and why these stream-
ing eyes?
Is love the cause? No, I the sex despise !
I hate, I loath his base perfidious name!
Yet if he should but feign a rival flaine?
But Chloe boasts and triumphs in my pains;
To her he's faithful, 'tis to me he feigns."
Thus love-sick Lydia rav'd. Her maid appears;
A band-box in her steady hand she bears.
"How well this ribband's gloss becomes your face!"
She cries, in raptures; "then, so sweet a lace!
How charmingly you look! so bright! so fair!
'Tis to your eyes the head-dress owes its air."
Straight Lydia smil'd; the comb adjusts her locks,
And at the play-house Harry keeps her box.
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When Doris rose. And now through all the room
From flowery tea exhales a fragrant fume.
Cup after cup they sipt, and talk'd by fits,
For Doris here, and there Melanthe sits.
Doris was young, a laughter-loving dame,
Nice of her own alike and others' fame:
Melanthe's tongue could well a tale advance,
And sooner gave than sunk a circumstance;
Lock'd in her memory, secrets never dy'd.
Doris begun Melanthe thus reply'd.
Name but the licence of the modern stage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage;
The whining tragic love she searce can bear,
But nauseous comedy ne'er shock'd her ear;
Yet, in the gallery mobb'd, she sits secure,
And laughs at jests that turn the box demure.
Though Laura's homely taste descends so low;
Her footman well may vie with Sylvia's beau.
Yet why should Laura think it a disgrace,
When proud Miranda's groom wears Flanders lace?
What though for music Cynthio boasts an ear?
Robin, perhaps, can hum an opera air.
Stretch'd on the couch of state she pensive lies,
While oft the snowy cambric wipes her eyes.
Now enter'd Lucy: trusty Lucy knew
To roll a sleeve, or bear a billet-doux ;
Her ready tongue, in secret service try'd,
With equal fluency spoke truth or ly'd;
She well could flush or humble a gallant,
And serve at once as maid and confidant!
A letter from her faithful stays she took:
Sabina snatch'd it with an angry look,
And thus in hasty words her grief confest ;
While Lucy strove to soothe her troubled breast.
What, still Myrtillo's hand! his flame I scorn; Give back his passion with the seal untorn. To break our soft repose has man a right? And are we doom'd to read whate'er they write? Not all the sex my firm resolves shall move; My life's a life of sorrow, not of love. May Lydia's wrinkles all my forehead trace, And Celia's palencss sicken o'er my face; May fops of mine, as Flavia's favours, boast, And coquettes triumph in my honour lost; May cards employ my nights, and never more May these curst eyes behold a matadore ; Break china, perish Shock, die perroquet; When I Fidelio's dearer love forget! Fidelio's judgment scorn'd the foppish train; His air was easy, and his dress was plain, His words sincere, respect his presence drew, And on his lips sweet conversation grew. Where's wit, where's beauty, where is virtue fled? Alas! they're now no more; Fidelio's dead!
Yet, when he liv'd, he wanted every grace; That easy air was then an awkward pace: Have not your sighs in whispers often said, His dress was slovenly, his speech ill-bred ? Have not I heard you, with a secret tear, Call that sweet converse sullen and severe ? Think not I come to take Myrtillo's part; Let Chloe, Daphne, Doris, share his heart; Let Chloe's love in every ear express His graceful person and genteel address. All well may judge what shaft has Daphne hit, Who suffers silence, to admire his wit. His quipage and liveries Doris move; But Chloe, Daphne, Doris, fondly love. Sooner shall cits in fashions guide the court, And beaux upon the busy Change resort; Sooner the nation shall from snuff be freed, And fops' apartments sinoke with India's weed; Sooner I'd wish and sigh through nunnery grates; Than reconimend the flame Sabina hates.
Because some widows are in haste subdued ; Shall every fop upon our tears intrude? Can I forget my lov'd Fidelio's tongue, Soft as the warbling of Italian song? Did not his rosy lips breathe forth perfume, Fragrant as steams from tea's impérial bloom ?
Yet once you thought that tongue a greater curse Than squalls of children for an absent nurse. Have you not fancy'd, in his frequent kiss, 'Th' ungrateful leavings of a filthy miss?
Lote, I thy power defy; no second flame Shall ever raze my dear Fidelio's name. Fannia without a tear might lose her lord, Who ne'er enjoy'd his presence but at board, And why should sorrow sit on Lesbia's face? Are there such comforts in a sot's embrace? No friend, no lover, is to Lesbia dead; For Lesbia long had known a separate bed. Gush forth, ye tears; waste, waste, ye sighs, my breast!
My days, my nights, were by Fidelio blest!
You cannot sure forget how oft you said, His teazing fondness jealousy betray'd! When at the play the neighbouring box he took, You thought you read suspicion in his look. When cards and counters flew around the board, Have you not wish'd the absence of your lord? His company was then a poor pretence, To check the freedoms of a wife's expense.
But why should I Myrtillo's passion blame, Since love's a fierce, involuntary flame?
Could he the sallies of his heart withstand, Why should he not to Chloe give his hand? For Chloe's handsome; yet he slights her flame; Last night she fainted at Sabina's name. Why, Daphne, dost thou blame Sabina's charms? Sabina keeps no lover from thy arms. At crimp Myrtillo play'd, in kind regards Doris threw love, unmindful of the cards; Doris was touch'd with spleen; her fan she rent, Flew from the table, and to tears gave vent. Why, Doris, dost thou curse Sabina's eyes? To her Myrtillo is a vulgar prize.
How bitter are thy words! forbear to teaso, I too might blame-but love delights to please. Why should I tell thee, that, when last the Sun Painted the downy peach of Newington, Josiah led thee through the garden's walk, And mingled melting kisses with his talk? Ah, Jealousy! turn, turn thine eyes aside: How can I see that watch adorn thy side? For verily no gift the sisters take
For lust of gain, but for the giver's sake.
I own, Josiah gave the golden toy, Which did the righteous hand of Quare employ When Caleb hath assign'd soine happy day, I look on this, and chide the hours' delay: And, when Josiah would his love pursue, On this look, and shun his wanton view. Man but in vain with trinkets tries to move; The only present Love demands is love.
Ah, Tabitha, to hear these words of thine, My pulse beats high, as if inflam'd with wine? When to the brethren first with fervent zeal The spirit movd the yearnings to reveal, How did I joy thy trembling lip to see Red as the cherry from the Kentish tree! When ecstasy had warm'd thy look so meek, Gardens of roses blushed on thy cheek! With what sweet transport didst thou roll thing How did thy words provoke the brethren's sighs ¡ Words that with holy sighs might others move, But, Tabitha, my sighs were sighs of love.
Is Tabitha beyond her wishes blest? Does no proud worldly dame divide thy breast
Though I had all that sinful love affords, And all the concubines of all the lords, Whose couches creak with whoredom's sinful shame, Whose velvet chairs are with adultery lame; Ev'n in the harlot's hall, I would not sip The dew of lewdness from her lying lip; I'd shun her paths, upon thy mouth to dwell, More sweet than powder which the merchants sell. O solace me with kisses pure like thine! Enjoy, ye lords, the wanton concubine.
"Pale settled sorrow hangs upon my brow, Dead are my charms; Alexis breaks his vow! Think, think, dear shepherd, on the days you knew, When I was happy, when my swain was true; Think how thy looks and tongue are form'd to
And think yet more—that all my fault was love,
Ah! could you view me in this wretched state,
You might not love me, but you could not hate.
Could you behold me in this conscious shade,
Where first thy vows, where first my love was paid,
Worn out with watching, sullen with despair,
And see each eye swell with a gushing tear;
Could you behold me on this mossy bed,
From my pale check the lively crimson fled,
Which in my softer hours you oft have sworn,
With rosy beauty far outblush'd the Morn;
Could you untouch'd this wretched object bear,
And would not lost Panthea claim a tear?
You could not, sure-tears from your eyes would
steal,
And unawares thy tender soul reveal.
Ah, no! thy soul with cruelty is fraught,
No tenderness disturbs thy savage thought;
Sooner shall tigers spare the trembling lambs,
And wolves with pity hear their bleating dams;
Sooner shall vultures from their quarry fly;
Than false Alexis for Panthea sigh!
Thy bosom ne'er a tender thought confest,
Sure stubborn flint has arm'd thy cruel breast!
But hardest flints are worn by frequent rains,
And the soft drops dissolve their solid veins ;
While thy relentless heart more hard appears,
And is not soften'd by a flood of tears.
"Ah, what is love! Panthea's joys are gone
The Spring now calls us forth; come, sister, come, Her liberty, her peace, her reason, flown!
To see the primrose and the daisy bloom. Let Ceremony bind the worldly pair; Sisters esteem the brethren's words sincere.
Espousals are but forms. O lead me hence, For secret love can never give offence.
Theŋ hand in hand the loving mates withdraw: True love is nature unrestrain'd by law. This tenet all the holy sect allows; So Tabitha took earnest of a spouse,
LONG had Panthea felt Love's secret smart,
And hope and fear alternate rul'd her heart;
Consenting glances had her flame confest:
In woman's eyes her very soul's exprest.
Perjur'd Alexis saw the blushing maid,
He saw, he swore, he conquer'd, and betray'd.
Another love now calls him from her arms,
His fickle heart another beauty warns;
Those oaths, oft whisper'd in Panthea's ears,
He now again to Galatea swears.
Beneath a beech th' abandon'd virgin laid,
In grateful solitude enjoys the shade; [strains,
There with faint voice she breath'd these moving
While sighing Zephyrs shar'd her amorous pains.
And when I view me in the watery glass,
I find Panthea now, not what she was.
As northern winds the new-blown roses blast,
And on the ground their fading ruins cast;
As sudden blights corrupt the ripen'd grain,
And of its verdure spoil the mournful plain;
So hapless love on blooming features preys,
So hapless love destroys our peaceful days.
"Come, gentle Sleep, relieve these weary'd eyes,
All sorrow in thy soft embraces dies:
There, spite of all thy perjur'd vows, I find
Faithless Alexis languishingly kind:
Sometimes he leads me by the mazy stream,
And pleasingly deludes me in my dream;
Sometimes he guides me to the secret grove,
Where all our looks, and all our talk, is love.
Oh! could I thus consume each tedious day,
And in sweet slumbers dream my life away!
But sleep, which now no more relieves these eyes
To my sad soul the dear deceit denies.
"Why does the Sun dart forth its cheerful rays? Why do the woods resound with warbling lays? Why does the rose her grateful fragrance yield, And yellow cowslips paint the smiling fielt? Why do the streams with murmuring music flow, And why do groves their friendly shade bestow? Let sable clouds the cheerful Sun deface, Let mournful silence seize the feather'd race; No more, ye roses, grateful fragrance yield, Droop, droop, ye cowslips, in the blasted field; No more, ye streams, with murmuring music flow, And let not groves a friendly shade bestow: With sympathizing grief let Nature mourn, And never know the youthful Spring's return
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