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She bids his heir the fum retain,
And 'tis a counter now again.
A guinea with a touch you
Take ev'ry fhape but Charity ;-
And not one thing you faw, or drew,
But chang'd from what was first in view.
The juggler now, in grief of heart,
With this fubmiffion own'd her art.
Can I fuch matchless slight withstand ?
How practice hath improv'd your hand!
But now and then I cheat the throng;
You ev'ry day, and all day long.

Mr. Moore has convey'd a very useful and important leffon to the ladies, and reprefented disagreeable truths in a pleafing manner, by the following Fable.

The POET and his PATRON. A Fable. By Mr. MOORE.

Why, Calia, is your fpreading waist
So loose, so negligently lac'd?

Why muft the wrapping bed-gown hide,
Your frowy bofom's fwelling pride?
How ill that drefs adorns your head,
Diftain'd, and rumpled from the bed!
Thofe clouds, that fhade your blooming face,
A little water might difplace,

As nature every morn beftows,

The crystal dew, to cleanse the rofe.

Thofe treffes, as the raven black
That wav'd in ringlets down your back,
Uncomb'd, and injur'd by neglect,
Destroy the face, which once they deck'd..
Whence this forgetfulness of dress?
Pray, madam, are you marry'd? Yes.
Nay, then indeed the wonder ceases,
No matter now how loose your dress is;
The end is won, your fortune's madé,
Your fifter now may take the trade.
Alas! what pity 'tis to find
This fault in half the female kind!"

From hence proceed averfion, ftrife,
And all that fours the wedded life.
Beauty can only point the dart,
'Tis neatness guides it to the heart;
Let neatnefs then, and beauty ftrive
To keep a wav'ring flame alive.

'Tis harder far (you'll find it true)
To keep the conqueft, than fubdue;
Admit us once behind the fcreen,
What is there farther to be seen ?
A newer face may raise the flame,
But every woman is the fame.
Then study chiefly to improve
The charm, that fix'd your husband's love,
Weigh well his humour. Was it drefs,
That gave your beauty power to bless?
Purfue it ftill; be neater feen;
'Tis always frugal to be clean;
So fhall you keep alive defire,
And time's fwift wing shall fan the fire,

In garret high (as ftories fay)
A Poet fung his tuneful lay;

So foft, fo smooth his verse, you'd swear
Apollo and the muses there:

Thro' all the town his praises rung,
His fonnets at the Play-houfe fung;
High waving o'er his lab'ring head,
The goddess Want her pinions fpread,
And with poetic fury fir'd

What Phebus faintly had infpir'd.

A noble youth of taste and wit,
Approv'd the fprightly things he writ,
And fought him in his cobweb doine,
Discharged his rent, and brought him home,
Behold him at the stately board,

Who, but the Poet and my Lord!
Each day, deliciously he dines,
And greedy quaffs the gen'rous wines;
His fides were plump, his fkin was fleek,
And plenty wanton'd on his cheek;

Aftonish'd at the change fo new,
Away th' infpiring goddess flew.

Now, dropt for politics and news,
Neglected lay the drooping mufe;
Unmindful whence his fortune came,
He ftifled the poetic flame;
Nor tale, nor fonnet, for my lady,
Lampoon, nor epigram was ready.
With juft contempt his patron faw,
(Refolv'd his bounty to withdraw)
And thus with anger in his look,
The late repenting fool befpoke.

Blind to the good that courts thee grown,
Whence has the fun of favour fhone?
Delighted with thy tuneful art,
Efteem was growing in my heart,
But idly thou reject'ft the charm,
That gave it birth, and kept it warm.
Unthinking fools, alone defpife

The arts, that taught them first to rife.

There is fomething very original, as well as droll and fatyrical, in the following Fable by Mr. Smart.

The BAG-WIG and the TOBACCO-PIPE,

A bag-wig of a jauntee air,
Trick'd up with all a barber's care,
Loaded with powder and perfume,
Hung in a spend-thrift's dreffing room;
Clofe by its fide, by chance convey'd,
A black tobacco-pipe was laid;
And with its vapours far and near
Out funk the effence of monfieur :
At which its rage, the thing of hair,
Thus, briftling up, began declare:
"Bak'd dirt, that with intrusion rude
"Breaks in upon my folitude;
"And with thy fetid breath defiles
"The air for forty thousand miles.
"Avaunt-pollution's in thy touch-
"Oh barborous English!-horrid Dutch! ́

"I cannot bear it.-Here, Sue, Nan,
"Go, call the maid to call the man,
"And bid him come without delay,
"To take this odious pipe away.-

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"Hideous! fure fome one fmoak'd thee, friend,
"Reversely at his t'other end.

"Oh, what mixt odours! what a throng
"Of falt and four, and ftale and strong!
"A most unnatural combination,

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Enough to mar all perspiration.-
"Monftrous!-again-'twou'd vex a faint.
"Sufan, the drops-or elfe I faint!"-
The pipe (for 'twas a pipe of foul)
Raifing himself upon his bowl,

In fmoak, like oracle of old,

Did thus his fentiments unfold:

"Why what's the matter, goodman Swagger,
"Thou flanting, French, fantastic bragger,
"Whofe whole fine fpeech is (with a pox)
"Ridiculous and heterodox.

""Twas better for the English nation
"Before fuch fcoundrels came in fashion;
"When none fought hair in realms unknown,
"But ev'ry blockhead wore his own.
"Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe,
"Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe;
"Who with my cloud-compelling aid
"Help our plantations and our trade;
"And am, when fober and when mellow,
"An upright, downright honeft fellow.
"Tho' fools, like you, may think me rough,
"And fcorn me 'caufe I am in buff,
"Yet your contempt I glad receive,
'Tis all the fame that you can give.
"None finery or fopp'ry prize
"But they who've fomething to disguise;
For fimple nature hates abuse,

"And PLAINNESS is the dress of USE.

What has been faid on the Fable leads me to a confideration of the more fublime and enterprifing part of

allegorical poetry; which gives life and action to virtues and vices, to paffions and diseases, to natural and moral qualities; and introduces goblins, fairies, and other imaginary perfonages and things, acting as divine, human, or infernal beings; and by that means affords matter and machinery fufficient even for an heroic poem: which has pafs'd unregarded by the writers on the Art of Poetry, notwithstanding thefe airy difguifes are, as it were, the very quinteffence or foul of the science.

END of VOL. 1.

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