"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.

TO A LADY,

ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA.

WHAT ecstacies her bosom fire!
How her eyes languish with desire!
How blest, 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.

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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 medals prize,

And view 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 duty?
Volume 11.

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With flow'rs, and gold, and azure, dy'd,
Of ev'ry house the grace and pride?
How white, how polish'd, is their skin,
And valued most when only seen!
She who before was highest priz'd
Is for a crack or flaw despis'd.

I grant they're frail, yet they're so rare,
The treasure cannot cost too dear!
But man is made of coarser stuff,
And serves convenience well enough;
He's a strong earthen vessel made,
For drudging, labour, toil, and trade;
And when wives lose their other self,
With case they bear the loss of Delf.
Husbands, more covetous than sage,
Condemn this China-buying rage;
They count that woman's prudence little,
Who sets her heart on things so brittle.
But are those wise men's inclinations
Fixt on more strong, more sure foundations?
If all that's frail we must despise,

No human view or scheme is wise.
Are not Ambition's hopes as weak?
They swell like bubbles, shine and break.
A courtier's promise is so slight,
'Tis made at noon, and broke at night.
What pleasure's sure? The miss you keep
Breaks both your fortune and your sleep.

The man who loves a country life
Breaks all the comforts of his wife;
And if he quit his farm and plough,
His wife in town may break her vow.
Love, Laura! love, while youth is warm,
For each new winter breaks a charm;
And woman's not like China sold,
But cheaper grows in growing old:

Then quickly chuse the prudent part,
Or else you break a faithful heart.

BOUNCE TO FOP.

An Epistle from a Dog at Twickenham to a Dog at Court.

To thee, sweet Fop! these lines I send,

Who, tho' no spaniel, am a friend.
Tho' once my tail, in wanton play,
Now frisking this, and then that way,
Chanc'd, with a touch of just the tip,
To hurt your Lady-lapdog-ship,
Yet thence to think I'd bite your head off,
Sure Bounce is one you never read of.

Fop! you can dance, and make a leg,
Can fetch and carry, cringe and beg;
And (what's the top of all your tricks)
Can stoop to pick up strings and sticks.
We country Dogs love nobler sport,
And scorn the pranks of Dogs at court,
Gay.]

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Fye, naughty Fop! where'er you come
To sh-t and p-ss about the room;
To lay your head in ev'ry lap,

And when they think not of you---snap:

The worst that Envy or that Spite

E'er said of me is, I can bite;

That idle gipsies, rogues in rags,

Who poke at me, can make no brags;

And that to touse such things as flutter,
To honest Bounce is bread and butter.
While you and ev'ry courtly fop
Fawn on the devil for a chop,
I 'have the humanity to hate

A butcher, tho' he brings me meat:
And let me tell you have a nose,
(Whatever stinking Fops suppose)
That under cloth of gold or tissue
Can smell a plaister or an issue.
Your pilf'ring lord, with simple pride,
May wear a picklock at his side;
My master wants no key of state,

For Bounce can keep his house and gate.
When all such Dogs have had their days,
As knavish Pams and fawning Trays;
When pamper'd Cupids, beastly Venies,
And motly squinting Harlequinies

Alii legunt Harvequinies.

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