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WELL-now, I think, we shall be wifer,

Cries Grub, who reads the Advertiser,
Here's Truth in Rhyme-a glorious treat!
It furely must abuse, the great

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Perhaps the king; without dispute
"Twill fall moft devilish hard on Bute.
Thrice he reviews his parting fhilling,
At laft refolves, though much unwilling,
To break all rules imbib'd in youth,
And give it up for Rhyme and Truth:

He reads-he frowns-Why, what's the matter?
Damn it-here's neither fenfe, nor fatyr-
Here take it, boy, there's nothing in't:
Such fellows!

to pretend to print!

Blame not, good cit, the poet's rhymes,
The fault's not his, but in the times:
The times, in which a monarch reigns,
Form'd to make happy Britain's plains ;
To ftop in their deftructive course,
Domeftic frenzy, foreign force,
To bid war, faction, party cease,
And bless the weary'd world with peace.
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The times in which is feen, ftrange fight!
A court both virtuous and polite,
Where merit beft can recommend
And fcience finds a conftant friend.

How then fhould fatyr dare to sport,
With fuch a king, and fuch a court,
While Truth looks on with rigid eye,
And tells her, every line 's a lye?



Upon reading fome Verfes, written by a young Lady at a Boarding-School. September 1760.


POLLO lately fent to know,

If he had any fons below;

For, by the trash he long has seen
In male and female Magazine,
A hundred quires not worth a groat,
The race must be extinct, he thought.--
His meffenger to court repairs;
Walks foftly with the croud up ftairs:
But when he had his errand told,

The courtiers fneer'd, both young and old..
Auguftus knit his royal brow,
And bade him let Apollo know it,
That from his infancy till now,

He lov'd nor poetry nor poet.

His next adventure was the Park,

When it grew fashionably dark :

There beauties, boobies, ftrumpets, rakes,

Talk'd much of commerce, whift, and ftakes;
Who tips the wink, who drops the card:
But not one word of Verfe or Bard.

The stage, Apollo's old domain,
Where his true fons were wont to reign,
His courier now paft frowning by:
Ye modern Durfeys, tell us why.
Slow, to the city last he went :

There, all was profe, of cent per cent.
There, alley-omnium, fcript, and bonus,
(Latin, for which a Muse would stone us,
Yet honeft Gideon's claffic ftile)
Made our poor Nuncio ftare and fimile.
And now the clock had ftruck eleven:
The meffenger must back to heaven;
But, just as he his wings had ty'd,
Look'd up Queen-Square, the North-eaft fide.
A blooming creature there he found,
With pen and ink, and books around,
Alone, and writing by a taper :

He read unfeen, then fole her paper.
It much amus'd him on his way;
And reaching heaven by break of day,
He fhew'd Apollo what he stole.
The god perus'd, and lik'd the whole:
Then, calling for his pocket-book,
Some right celestial vellum took;
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And what he with a fun-beam there
Writ down, the Mufe thus copies fair:
If I no men my fons must call,

Here's one fair daughter worth them all : "Mark then the facred words that follow, "Sophia's mine"-fo fign'd




MERCY, heaven's first attribute,
Whofe care embraces man and brute!
Behold me, where I shivering ftand;
Bid gentle Pity stretch her hand
To want and age, disease and pain,
That all in one sad object reign.
Still feeling bad, ftill fearing worse,
Exiftence is to me a curfe:

Yet, how to close this weary eye?
By my own hand I dare not die :
And death, the friend of human woes,.
Who brings the laft and found repose ;
Death does at dreadful distance keep,
And leaves one wretch to wake and weep!


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APOLLO, from the fouthern sky,

O'er London lately glanc'd his eye.
Juft fuch a glance our courtiers throw
At fuitors whom they shun, to know :
Or have you mark'd th' averted mien,
The cheft erect, the freezing look,
Of Bumbo, when a bard is feen.
Charg'd with his dedication-book? -

But gods are never in the wrong:
What then difpleas'd the power of song?
The cafe was this: Where noble arts
Once flourish'd, as our fathers tell us,
He now can find, for men of parts,,
None but rich blockheads and mere fellows ;
Since drums and dice and diffipation
Have chac'd all tafte from all the nation.

For is there, now, one table spread,
Where fenfe and fcience may be fed ?
Where, with a fmile on every face,
Invited Merit takes his place?


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