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Let eager suitors proffer bars of gold,
And court me like Penelope of old,

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

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Of some hard judge, or shoulder-tapping dun,
The ruthless pupil of Old Bailey Juries,
Nurs'd by the fiends, and suckled by the furies.

Ruth. O, dread not storms! my sighs shall
waft thee o'er-

Though tempests should arise, and billows roar,
Thy bark shall lightly skim the watʼry realm;
The God of Love, presiding at the helm,
Shall night and day his watchful vigils keep,
And be thy trusty pilot o'er the deep.

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;
To sick enamorato, Lady's glove ;-

So are thy sweet assurances of love

To this fond heart, which, may I now be curst,
Is not at thought of parting like to burst.

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,
To sing of wars and conflicts dire,
And valiant heroes slain;

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,
To sing the pow'r of beauty's charms,
The joys of love and wine,
Shall better far thy muse become,

Than trumpet, pistol, sword, and drum;
For not a strain can Croker thrum,

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,
Record the victories of Bacchus,
A chief, who if he once attack us,
Is sure to win the day.

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, Busby, and my song inspire,
And all ye rhyming host!

Come, chaste Matilda! thou whose muse,
In any sudden dearth of news,

Adorns the Morning Post.

I never swept the tuneful string
To laud the virtues of a King,

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
What sort of character you choose,
Wise, tender, or heroic?

A chief, invincible in arms—

A lover, fond of beauty's charms—
A statesman, or a stoic?

To do what many bards have done,
Suppose I blend them all in one!
With compliments in plenty;
And paint you am'rous, wise, and brave,
Chaste, philosophical, and grave,

And call you one-and-twenty.

Hail, mighty Prince! illustrious youth!
O listen to the voice of truth,

A voice to Monarchs strange;

Your bright example mends the taste,
Bear witness, many a slender waist
From Charing Cross to 'Change!

Augustan days are come, we hope,
For Doctor Busby rivals Pope,

And Milton keeps the rear;

Sir Richard lives in Cottle's strains,
And Spenser's Muse, where fancy reigns,

Is distanc'd by a Peer.

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