I feel so strange, so comical, and queer; My pulse beats high, my blood and bowels yearn, And quicken my conversion with a psalm. Pet. Such soft sensations do the saints inherit, Who feel the inward workings of the spirit; O! would our Sisters Tabitha and Ruth, With all the crop-ear'd brethren of the truth, Assembled hither for their soul's diversion, Could see thy sudden, wonderful conversion. Da. O, name not Tabby! debonnaire and sleek, I tremble at the roses in her cheek! And Ruth is buxom, though devout and shy, Pet. Now hear me, brother Damon; hear, I pr'ythee, My late conversion-and the Lord be wi' thee! I was a forward, pert, and graceless brat, I pitch'd the quoit, shot sparrows in a bean-field; I was, though young in years, mature in sin. But fate, in spite of all my follies past, Resolv'd to turn my stubborn heart at last : And groan'd, and sang, and prophesy'd, and pray'd, To crown the whole, I took a second wife, * For an account of this interesting character, see the European Magazine for October, 1804. + It is a saying when a culprit is executed at the Old Bailey, that he dies (in reference to the last exhortations of Doctor Cotton, the pious ordinary,) "with Cotton in his ears." Five hundred wives had he, a noble suit! Peter might surely venture upon two! I feast, grow fat, kiss wife, and keep my coach; But live secure, while Satan is my friend. Da. Right deftly hast thou tun'd thy reed, my And told thy tale in mighty pleasant metre ; Pet. A mighty lucky thought—as sure as Heaven, It only wants ten minutes to eleven! Collection Sunday to begin so late! Do thou, good Damon, come and hold the plate; But first, since thus our foolish quarrel ends, Let's drink a pot of porter, and be friends. ECLOGUE VI. LORD MAYOR'S DAY. -Quod optanti divûm promittere nemo VIRG. EN. SCARCE had Aurora chas'd the shades of night, Rose from her downy pillow, blythe and gay, For Goddess Chance, to make the people stare, Had pitch'd upon her husband for a May'r. In ancient times, when Britain's laurels grew, The rival City had her Poet too; Then Laureat Settle, in harmonious lays, But times are chang'd; and many a tuneful strain The civic bounty courts, but courts in vain― E'en Virgil, who in British cap and gown, Now humbly asks the favour of the town, Shall find, perhaps, no market for his rhymes, That pleas'd Maecenas, in Augustan times; And, forc'd by Dulness to his native home, Without a patron travel back to Rome. Now walk'd Belinda forth, superbly sheen, "She look'd a goddess, and she mov'd a queen!" To make her blooming, Art its colours lent, And nought she lack'd that Fashion could invent. Rare articles for show, and few for use, Hat à-la-mode, and mantle à-la-russe ; |