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But he requires not the strong glare of verse,
Let punctual History his deeds rehearse;
Let truth in native purity appear,

You'll find Achilles and Æneas there.

Is this the comfort which the Muse bestows?

I but indulge and aggravate your woes.
A prudent friend who seeks to give relief
Ne'er touches on the spring that mov'd the grief. 50
Is it not barb'rous, to the sighing maid

To mention broken vows, and nymphs betray'd?
Would you the ruin'd merchant's soul appease
With talk of sands, and rocks, and stormy seas?
Ev'n while I strive on Marlbro' fame to rise,
I call up sorrow in a daughter's eyes.

Think on the laurels that his temples shade,
Laurels that (spite of time) shall never fade;
Immortal Honour has enroll'd his name,
Detraction's dumb, and Envy put to shame.
Say who can soar beyond his eagle flight?
Has he not reach'd to glory's utmost height?
What could he more had Heav'n prolong'd his date?
All human pow'r is limited by Fate.

Forbear; 'tis cruel further to commend;

I wake your sorrow, and again offend:
Yet sure your goodness must forgive a crime
Which will be spread thro' ev'ry age and clime.
Tho' in your life ten thousand summers roll,
And tho' you compass earth from pole to pole,

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Where'er men talk of war and martial fame, They'll mention Marlborough's and Cæsar's name.

But vain are all the counsels of the Muse; A soul like your's could not a tear refuse: Could you your birth and filial love forego, Still sighs must rise and gen'rous sorrow flow; For when from earth such matchless worth removes, A great mind suffers, Virtue virtue loves..

TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND

WILLIAM LOWNDS, ESQ.

AUTHOR OF THAT CELEBRATED

Treatise in folio called the Land-tax Bill.

WHEN poets print their work, the scribbling crew.
Stick the bard o'er with lays, like Christmas pew.
Can meagre poetry such fame deserve?

Can poetry, that only writes to starve?
And shall no laurel deck that famous head,
In which the Senate's annual law is bred?
That hoary head, which greater glory fires,
By nobler ways and means true fame acquires?
O had I Virgil's force, to sing the man

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Whose learned lines can millions raise per ann.
Great Lownds his praise should swell the trump of
And Rapes and Wapentakes resound his name. [Fame,
If the blind poet gain'd a long renown

By singing ev'ry Grecian chief and town,

Sure Lownds his prose much greater fame requires,
Which sweetly counts five thousand knights and

squires,

Their seats, their cities, parishes, and shires.

Thy copious preamble so smoothly runs, Taxes no more appear like legal duns;

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Lords, Knights, and Squires, th' assessors' pow'r obey,
We read with pleasure, tho' with pain we pay.
Ah! why did C---- thy works defame!
That author's long harangue betrays his name;
After his speeches can his pen succeed?
Tho' forc'd to hear, we're not oblig'd to read.
Under what science shall thy works be read?
All know thou wert not poet born and bred;
Or dost thou boast th' historian's lasting pen,
Whose annals are the Acts of worthy men?
No: satire is thy talent; and each lash
Makes the rich miser tremble o'er his cash.
What on the drunkard can be more severe
Than direful taxes on his ale and beer?

Ev'n Button's wits are nought compar'd to thee, Who ne'er were known or prais'd but o'er his tea, While thou thro' Britain's distant isle shall spread, In ev'ry Hundred and Division read.

Critic's in classics oft' interpolate,

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But ev'ry word of thine is fix'd as Fate.

Some works come forth at morn, but die at night,
In blazing fringers round a tallow light;

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Some may, perhaps, to a whole week extend,
Like S (when unassisted by a friend)
But thou shalt live a year in spite of Fate;
And where's your author boasts a longer date?
Poets of old had such a wond'rous pow'r,
That with their verses they could raise a tow'r ;
But in thy prose a greater force is found:
What poet ever rais'd ten thousand pound?
Cadmus, by sowing dragons' teeth, we read,
Rais'd a vast army from the pois'nous seed.
Thy labours, Lownds! can greater wonders do,
Thou raisest armies, and canst pay them too.
Truce with thy dreaded pen: thy Annals cease;
Why need we armies when the land's in peace?
Soldiers are perfect devils in their way,

When once they 're rais'd, they 're cursed hard to lay.

TO A YOUNG LADY,

WITH SOME LAMPREYS.

WITH lovers 'twas of old the fashion.

By presents to convey their passion;
No matter what the gift they sent,
The lady saw that love was meant,
Fair Atalanta, as a favour,

Took the boar's head her hero gave her,
Nor could the bristly thing affront her,
'Twas a fit present from a hunter.

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When squires send woodcocks to the dame,
It serves to show their absent flame.

Some by a snip of woven hair

In posied lockets bribe the fair.
How many mercenary matches

Have sprung from di'mond-rings and watches?
But hold---a ring, a watch, a locket,

Would drain at once a poet's pocket:

He should send songs that cost him nought,
Nor ev'n be prodigal of thought.

Why then, send Lampreys. Fye, for shame!
'Twill set a virgin's blood on flame.
This to fifteen a proper gift!

It might lend sixty-five a lift.

I know your maiden aunt will scold, And think my present somewhat beld: I see her lift her hands and eyes;

"What, eat it, Niece! eat Spanish flies! "Lamprey's a most immodest diet, "You'll neither wake nor sleep in quiet : "Should I to-night cat sago-cream, "">Twould make me blush to tell my dream. "If I eat lobster, 'tis so warming, "That ev'ry man I see looks charming. "Wherefore had not the filthy fellow "Laid Rochester upon your pillow? "I vow and swear I think the present "Had been as modest and as decent.

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