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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;
Lords, Knights, and Squires, th'assessors' pow'robey,
We read with pleasure, tho' with pain we pay.
Ah! why did C---- thy works det ne!
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
30 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, But ev'ry word of thine is fix'd as Fate. Some works come forth at morn, but die at night, 40 In blazing fringers round a tallow light;
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, 50
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,
56 When once they ’re rais'd, they 're cursed hard to lay.
Wiru lovers 'twas of old the fashion.
By presents 10 conuey 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 brisıly thing affront her,
'Twas a fit present from a hunter.
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'inond-rings and watches ?
But hold---å ring, a waich, 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 fiamė.
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 arid eges;
" What, eat it, Niece! eat Spanish flies!
Lamprey 's a most immo'est diet,
“ You'll neither wake nor sleep in quiet :
“ Should I to-night eat sago-cream,
" 'Twould make me blush to tell my dream.
“ If I eat libster, '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.
• Who has her virtue in her pow'r? " Each day has its unguarded hour: “ Always in danger of undoing, “ A prawn, a shrimp, may prove our ruin!
“ The shepherdess, who lives on sallad, " To cool her youth controls her palate; " Should Dian's maids turn liq'rish livers, “ And of huge Lampreys rob the rivers, " Then all beside each glade and visto, - You'd see nymphs lying like Calisto.
" The man who meant to heat your blood “ Needs not himself such vicious food.”!
In this, I own, your aunt is clear;
I sent you what I well might spare :
For when I see you, (without joking)
Your eyes, lips, breasts, are so provoking,
They set my heart more, cock-a-hoop
Than could whole seas of craw-fish soup.
ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHIVA.
What ecstacies her bosom fire !
How her eyes languish with desire!
How bles, how happy should I be,
Were that fond glance bestow'd on me!
New doubts and fears within me war:
What rival's near? a China jar.
China's the passion of her soul;
A cup, a plate, a dish, a bowl,
Can kindle wishes in her breast,
Inflame with joy, or break her rest.
Some gems collect, some niedals prize,
And vie:r their rust with lovers's eyes;
Some court the stars at midnight hours,
Some dote on Nature's charms in flow'rs!
But ev'ry beauty I can trace
In Laura's mind, in Laura's face;
My stars are in this brighter sphere;
My lily and my rose is here.
Philosophers more grave than wise
Hunt science down in butterflies;
Or fondly poring on a spider,
Stretch human contemplation wider.
Fossils give joy to Galen’s soul,
He digs for knowledge like a mole;
In shells so learn'd, that all agree
No fish that swims knows more than he!
In such pursuits if wisdom lies,
Who, Laura ! shall thy taste despise ?
When I some antique jar behold,
Or white, or blue, cr speck'd with gold,
Vessels so pure, and so refin'd,
Appear the types of womankind:
Are they not valu'd for their beauty,
Toc fair, too fine, for household dury?