Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.
Thus to the pressing Corydon,
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid!
Fearing by love to be undone,
In broken dying accents said.
Delia, who held the conscious door,
Inspir'd by truth and brandy, smil'd,
Knowing that, sixteen months before,
Our Lucrece had her second child.
And, hark ye! madam, cried the bawd,
None of your flights, your high rope dodging;
Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the squire, or quit the lodging.
Oh! have I-Florimel went on-
Have I then lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken virtue run,
If by her friend she is betray'd?
Oh! curse on empty friendship's name!
Lord, what is all our future view!
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you!
From Delia's rage, and fortune's frown,
A wretched love-sick maid deliver!
Oh! tip me but another crown,
Dear sir, and make me yours for ever.
WHEN Willis* of Ephraim heard Rochester+ preach, Thus Bentley said to him, I prithee, dear bro
How lik'st thou this sermon? 'tis out of my reach.
His is one way, said Willis, and ours is another: I care not for carping; but this I can tell, We preach very sadly, if he preaches well.
EPIGRAM ON BISHOP ATTERBURY..
MEEK Francis lies here, friend: without stop or stay,
As you value your peace, make the best of your way.
Though at present arrested by death's caitiff paw,
If he stirs, he may still have recourse to the law.
And in the King's Bench should a verdict be found,
That by livery and seisin his grave is his ground,
He will claim to himself what is strictly his due,
And an action of trespass will straightway ensue,
That you without right on his premises tread,
On a simple surmise that the owner is dead.
ON BISHOP ATTERBURY'S BURYING THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, MDCCXX.
"I HAVE no hopes," the duke he says, and dies; "In sure and certain hopes," the prelate cries: Of these two learned peers, I prithee, say, man, Who is the lying knave, the priest or layman? The duke he stands an infidel confest, "He's our dear brother," quoth the lordly priest. The duke, tho' knave, still "brother dear," he cries; And who can say, the reverend prelate lies?
HONOUR, I say, or honest fame,
I mean the substance, not the name;
(Not that light heap of tawdry wares,
Of ermine, coronets, and stars,
Which often is by merit sought,
By gold and flattery oftener bought;
The shade, for which ambition looks
In Selden's* or in Ashmole's † books:)
But the true glory, which proceeds,
Reflected bright, from honest deeds,
Which we in our own breast perceive,
And kings can neither take nor give.
By birth I'm a slave, yet can give you a crown,
I dispose of all honours, myself having none;
I'm obliged by just maxims to govern my life,
Yet I hang my own master, and lie with his wife.
When men are a-gaming, I cunningly sneak,
And their cudgels and shovels away from them take.
Fair maidens and ladies I by the hand get,
And pick off their diamonds, tho' ne'er so well set.
For when I have comrades we rob in whole bands,
Then presently take off your lands from your hands.
But, this fury once over, I've such winning arts,
That you love me much more than you do your own
FORM'D half beneath, and half above the earth,
We sisters owe to art our second birth:
The smith's and carpenter's adopted daughters,
Made on the land, to travel on the waters.
Swifter they move, as they are straiter bound,
Yet neither tread the air, or wave, or ground:
They serve the poor for use, the rich for whim,
Sink when it rains, and when it freezes swim.
THAT all from Adam first began,
None but ungodly Woolston doubts;
And that his son, and his son's son,
Were all but ploughmen, clowns, and louts.
Each, when his rustic pains began,
To merit pleaded equal right;
'Twas only who left off at noon,
Or who went on to work till night.
But coronets we owe to crowns,
And favour to a court's affection;
By nature we are Adam's sons,
And sons of Anstis* by election.
Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd,
Since thy forefathers held the plough ;
When this in story shall be told,
Add, that my kindred do so now.
The man who by his labour gets
His bread, in independent state,
Who never begs, and seldom eats,
Himself can fix or change his fate.
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