Let eager suitors proffer bars of gold, I'll show the rogues, the lady of Ulysses Had not a heart more true to love, than this is. Thyr. I know thee, Love ! thou surely wert the Of some hard judge, or shoulder-tapping dun, Ruth. O, dread not storms! my sighs shall Though tempests should arise, and billows roar, Thyr. As to the City 'Prentice, whey and curds, t So to me, gentle maiden! are thy words. As to the longing school-boy, Christmas cheer; To cattle, pastures green and rivers clear; * Nunc scio quid sit amor. Duris in cotibus illum, &c. + Quale sopor fessis in gramine; quale per æstum Dulcis aquæ saliente sitim restinguere rivo. To rosy vicars, revelry and ease; To hungry lawyers, briefs and double fees; So are thy sweet assurances of love To this fond heart, which, may I now be curst, Ruth. This night, my Thyrsis, let us banish care,* Cutlets and bottled ale shall be our fare; Thy head shall find a pillow on my breast, My voice shall hush thy sorrows all to rest: For hark! the gaoler shakes his bunch of keys, And ev'ning Zephyrs die along the trees. * Hic tamen hanc mecum poteras requiescere noctem Fronde super viridi. Sunt nobis mitia poma, &c. IMITATIONS OF HORACE. ODE XV. BOOK IV. TO THE PRINCE REGENT. "Phœbus volentem prælia loqui." WITH martial heat I seiz'd the Lyre, When Phoebus whisper'd with a frown— "O ne'er, to please a foolish town, Attempt the battle-strain. "To fill the soul with fond alarms, Than trumpet, pistol, sword, and drum; To match one Ode of thine. "Let other bards, in martial verse The deeds of Wellington rehearse :In numbers light and gay Do thou, my friend, Horatius Flaccus, 66 Thy Prince demands his meed of praise, Attend-and thou shalt gain the Bays, (The hungry Poet's pray'r,) For which harmonious Cibber burn'd, Which haughty Gray indignant spurn'd, And Dryden blush'd to wear." Obedient then, I strike the Lyre— Come, chaste Matilda! thou whose muse, Adorns the Morning Post. I never swept the tuneful string Or what is more-create 'em : With lighter strains friends I treat, my A pun, a tale, a quaint conceit, Or Scandalum Magnatum. Then, please your Highness, tell my muse A chief, invincible in arms— A lover, fond of beauty's charms— To do what many bards have done, And call you one-and-twenty. Hail, mighty Prince! illustrious youth! A voice to Monarchs strange; Your bright example mends the taste, Augustan days are come, we hope, And Milton keeps the rear; Sir Richard lives in Cottle's strains, Is distanc'd by a Peer. |