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And with more front engage a trooper
Than Jenny Jones, or Lucy Cooper.

Send me each mischief-making nibbler; 'Tis equal, fenator or scribbler:

Who, on the self-fame fpot of ground,
The felf-fame hearers ftaring round,
Abjure and join with, praise and blame,
Both men and measures, ftill the fame.
Or ferve our foes with all their might,
By proving Britons dare not fight:
Slim, flimsey, fiddling, futile elves,
They paint the nation from themselves ;
Lefs aiming to be wife than witty,
And mighty pert, and mighty pretty.


Send me each string-fave green and blue-
Thefe, brother Tower-hill, wait for
But, Lollius, be not in the fpleen;
'Tis only Arthur's Knights I mean-
Not thofe of old renown'd in fable,
Nor of the round, but gaming table;
Who, every night, the waiters fay,
Break every law they make by day;
Plunge deep our youth in all the vicc
Attendant upon drink and dice,

And, mixing in nocturnal battles,
Devour each other's goods and chattels ;
While from the mouth of magic box,
With curfes dire and dreadful knocks,
They fling whole tenements away,
Fling time, health, fame-yet call it play!

Till, by advice of fpecial friends,

The titled dupe a fharper ends:
Or, if fome drop of noble blood
Remains, not quite defil'd to mud,
The wretch, unpity'd and alone,
Leaps headlong to the world unknown!




O R,


"Egregiam vero laudem et fpolia ampla refertis, "Una dola Divùm fi Foemina victa duorum eft."




A certain young lady was furprized, on horse-back, by a violent storm of wind and rain from the Southweft; which made her difmount, fomewhat precipitately.

THE god, in whole gay train appear

Thofe gales that wake the purple year;
Who lights up health and bloom and grace
In Nature's, and in Mira's face;

To speak more plain, the western wind,
Had seen this brightest of her kind :
Had feen her oft with fresh surprize!
And ever with defiring eyes!
Much, by her fhape, her look, her air,
Distinguish'd from the vulgar fair;
More, by the meaning foul that shines
Through all her charms, and all refines.


Born to command, yet turn'd to please,
Her form is dignity, with ease :
Then-fuch a hand, and fuch an arm,
As age or impotence might warm!
Juft fuch a leg too, Zephir knows,
The Medicéan Venus fhows!

So far he fees; fo far admires.
Each charm is fewel to his fires :
But other charms, and thofe of price,
That form the bounds of Paradife,
Can thofe an equal praife command;
All turn'd by Nature's fineft hand?
Is all the confecrated ground

With plumpnefs, firm, with fmoothness, round?
The world, but once, one Zeuxis faw,

A faultlefs form who dar'd to draw:
And then, that all might perfect be,
All rounded off in due degree,

To furnish out the matchlefs piece,

Were rifled half the toafts of Greece.

'Twas Pitt's white neck, 'twas Delia's thigh;
'Twas Waldegrave's fweetly-brilliant eye;
'Twas gentle Pembroke's ease and grace,
And Hervey lent her maiden-face.
But dares he hope, on British ground,
That these may all, in one, be found?
These chiefly that still fhun his eye?
He knows not; but he means to try.

Aurora rifing, fresh and gay,
Gave promife of a golden day.


Up, with her Sifter, Mira rofe,

Four hours before our London beaux;
For these are still asleep and dead,
Save Arthur's fons-not yet in bed.
A rofe, impearl'd with orient dew,
Had caught the paffing fair-one's view;
To pluck the bud he saw her stoop,
And try'd, behind, to heave her hoop:
Then, while across the daify'd lawn
She turn'd, to feed her milk-white fawn,
Due weftward as her steps fhe bore,
Would fwell her petticoat, before;
Would subtly steal his face between,
To fee-what never yet was feen!

And fure, to fan it with his wing,
"No nine-month fymptom e'er can bring:
"His aim is but the Nymph to please,
"Who daily courts his cooling breeze."
But liften, fond believing Maid!
When Love, foft traitor, would perfuade,
With all the moving skill and grace
Of practis'd paffion in his face,

Dread his approach, distrust your power—
For oh! there is one fhepherd's hour:
And though he long, his aim to cover,
May, with the friend, disguise the lover,
The sense, or nonfenfe, of his wooing
Will but adore you into ruin.
But, for those butterflies, the beaux,
Who buzz around in tinfel-rows,


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