Again you fail: yet Safe's the word; A statesman, or a South-sea jobber; But, though you miss your third essay, A prince, the moment he is crown'd, As emblems of the sovereign power, Or hire the party pamphleteers Then, poet, if you mean to thrive, But, if you think this trade too base, At Will's you hear a poem read, He gives directions to the town, Rules, like an alderman, his ward; Appointed sovereign judge to sit An heir for Britain to secure The remnant of the royal blood Comes pouring on me like a flood: Bright goddesses, in number five; Duke William, sweetest prince alive. Now sing the minister of state, Who shines alone without a mate. Observe with what majestic port This Atlas stands to prop the court: Intent the public debts to pay, Like prudent Fabius, by delay. Thou great vicegerent of the king, Thy praises every Muse shall sing! In all affairs thou sole director, Of wit and learning chief protector; Though small the time thou hast to spare, The church is thy peculiar care. Of pious prelates what a stock You choose, to rule the sable flock! You raise the honor of the peerage, Proud to attend you at the steerage. You dignify the noble race, Content yourself with humbler place. Now, learning, valor, virtue, sense, To titles give the sole pretence. St. George beheld thee with delight Vouchsafe to be an azure knight, When on thy breasts and sides Herculean He fix'd the star and string cerulean. Say, poet, in what other nation Shone ever such a constellation! Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, And tune your harps, and strow your bays: Your panegyrics here provide; You cannot err on flattery's side. Above the stars exalt your style, You still are low ten thousand mile. On Lewis, all his bards bestow'd Of incense many a thousand load; But Europe mortified his pride, And swore the fawning rascals lied. Yet what the world refus'd to Lewis, Applied to George, exactly true is. Exactly true! invidious poet! "Tis fifty thousand times below it. Translate me now some lines, if you can, From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. They could all power in Heaven divide, And do no wrong on either side; They teach you how to split a hair, Give George and Jove an equal share. Yet why should we be lac'd so straight? I'll give my monarch butter-weight. And reason good; for many a year Jove never intermeddled here: Nor, though his priests be duly paid, Did ever we desire his aid; We now can better do without him, Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. Catera desiderantur. A DESCRIPTION OF A CITY-SHOWER. In imitation of Virgil's Georgics.-1710. CAREFUL observers may foretell the hour (By sure prognostics) when to dread a shower. While rain aepends, the pensive cat gives o'er Her frolics, and pursues her tail no more. Returning home at night, you'll find the sink Strike your offended sense with double stink. If you be wise, then go not far to dine; You'll spend in coach-hire more than save in wine A coming shower your shooting corns presage, Old aches will throb, your hollow tooth will rage. Sauntering in coffee-house is Dulman seen; He damns the climate, and complains of spleen. Meanwhile the south, rising with dabbled wings, A sable cloud athwart the welkin flings That swill'd more liquor than it could contain, And, like a drunkard, gives it up again. Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope, While the first drizzling shower is borne aslope : Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean : You fly, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop To rail; she, singing, still whirls on her mop. Not yet the dust had shunn'd th' unequal strife, But aided by the wind, fought still for life; And, wafted with its foe by violent gust, 'Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust. Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid, When dust and rain at once his coat invade? Sole coat! where dust cemented by the rain Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain! Now in contiguous drops the flood comes down, Threatening with deluge this devoted town. To shops in crowds the daggled females fly, Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy. The Templar spruce, while every spout's abroach, Stays till 'tis fair, yet seems to call a coach. The tuck'd-up sempstress walks with hasty strides, While streams run down her oil'd umbrella's sides Here various kinds, by various fortunes led, Commence acquaintance underneath a shed. Triumphant Tories and desponding Whigs Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs. Box'd in a chair, the beau impatient sits, While spouts run clattering o'er the roof by fits, And ever and anon with frightful din The leather sounds; he trembles from within. So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed, Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed, (Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do, Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,) Laocoon struck the outside with his spear, And each imprison'd hero quak'd for fear. Now from all parts the swelling kennels flow, And bear their trophies with them as they go: Filths of all hues and odors seem to tell What street they sail'd from by their sight and smell They, as each torrent drives, with rapid force, From Smithfield or St. 'Pulchre's shape their course, And in huge confluence join'd at Snowhill ridge, Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge. Sweepings from butchers' stalls, dung, guts, and blood, Drown'd puppies, stinking sprats, all drench'd in mud, Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the flood. HORACE, BOOK III. ODE II. TO THE EARL OF OXFORD, LATE LORD TREASURER. Sent to him when in the Tower, 1617. Virtue repuls'd, yet knows not to repine, Next, faithful silence hath a sure reward; MRS. HARRIS'S PETITION. 1699. To their excellencies the lords justices of Ireland,† the humble petition of Frances Harris, Who must starve, and die a maid, if it miscarries; Humbly showeth, That I went to warm myself in Lady Betty's chamber, because I was cold; And I had in a purse seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, besides farthings, in money and gold: So, because I had been buying things for my lady last night, I was resolv'd to tell my money, to see if it was right. Now, you must know, because my trunk has a very bad lock, Therefore all the money I have, which, God knows, is a very small stock, I keep in my pocket, tied about my middle, next to my smock. So when I went to put up my purse, as God would have it, my smock was unript, And, instead of putting it into my pocket, down it slipt; Then the bell rung, and I went down to put my lady to bed; And, God knows, I thought my money was as safe as my maidenhead. *The ensign of the lord treasurer's office. †The Earls of Berkeley and of Galway. Lady Betty Berkeley, afterwards Germaine. So, when I came up again, I found my pocket feel very light: But when I search'd, and miss'd my purse, Lord! I thought I should have sunk outright. Lord! madam, says Mary, how d'ye do? Indeed, says I, never worse: But pray, Mary, can you tell what I have done with my purse? Lord help me! said Mary, I never stirr'd out of this place: Nay, said I, I had it in Lady Betty's chamber, that's a plain case. So Mary got me to bed and cover'd me up warm: However, she stole away my garters, that I might do myself no harm. So I tumbled and toss'd all night, as you may very well think, But hardly ever set my eyes together, or slept a wink. So I was a-dream'd, methought, that we went and search'd the folks round, And in a corner of Mrs. Dukes's* box, tied in a rag, the money was found. So next morning we told Whittle,† and he fell aswearing: Then my dame Wadgert came; and she, you know, is thick of hearing. Dame, said I, as loud as I could bawl, do you know what a loss I have had? Nay, said she, my Lord Colway's folks are all very sad; For my Lord Dromedary comes a Tuesday without fail. Pugh! said I, but that's not the business that I ail. Says Cary, says he, I have been a servant this fiveand-twenty years, come spring, And in all the places I liv'd, I never heard of such a thing. Yes, says the steward,** I remember, when I was at my Lady Shrewsbury's, Such a thing as this happen'd just about the time of gooseberries. So I went to the party suspected, and I found her full of grief, (Now, you must know, of all things in the world, I hate a thief.) However, I am resolv'd to bring the discourse slily about; Mrs. Dukes, said I, here's an ugly accident has happen'd out: "Tis not But the "Tis true, Besides, that I value the money three skips of a louse ;tt thing I stand upon is the credit of the house. seven pounds, four shillings, and sixpence, makes a great hole in my wages: as they say, service is no inheritance in these ages. Now, Mrs. Dukes, you know, and every body understands, That though 'tis hard to judge, yet money can't go without hands. The devil take me! said she (blessing herself) if ever I saw 't! So she roar'd like a Bedlam, as though I had call'd her all to naught. So, you know, what could I say to her any more? I e'en left her, and came away as wise as I was before. Well; but then they would have had me gone to the cunning man! No, said I, 'tis the same thing, the chaplain will be here anon. So the chaplain* came in. Now, the servants say he is my sweetheart, Because he's always in my chamber, and I always take his part. So, as the devil would have it, before I was aware, out I blunder'd: Parson, said I, can you cast a nativity, when a body's plunder'd? (Now, you must know, he hates to be call'd parson like the devil!) Truly, says he, Mrs. Nab, it might become you to be more civil; If your money be gone, as a learned divine says, d'ye see, You are no text for my handling; so take that from me: I was never taken for a conjurer before, I'd have you to know. Lord! said I, don't be angry, I am sure I never thought you so; You know I honor the cloth; I design to be a parson's wife; I never took one in your coat for a conjurer, in all my life. With that he twisted his girdle at me like a rope, as who should say, Now you may go hang yourself for me! and so went away. Well I thought I should have swoon'd. Lord! said I, what shall I do? I have lost my money, and shall lose my true love TO THE EARL OF PETERBOROW, WHO COMMANDED THE BRITISH FORCES IN SPAIN MORDANTO fills the trump of fame, In journeys he outrides the post, Sits up till midnight with his host, Talks politics, and gives the toast; Knows every prince in Europe's face, Flies like a squib from place to place, And travels not, but runs a race. From Paris gazette à-la-main, A messenger comes all a-reek, Mordanto at Madrid to seek; He left the town above a week. Next day the post-boy winds his horn, And rides through Dover in the morn: Mordanto's landed from Leghorn. Mordanto gallops on alone: The roads are with his followers strown; This breaks a girth and that a bone. His body active as his mind, Returning sound in limb and wind, Except some leather lost behind. A skeleton in outward figure, His meagre corpse, though full of vigor, Would halt behind him, were it bigger. So wonderful his expedition, Shines in all climates like a star; In senates bold, and fierce in war; A land commander, and a tar: Heroic actions early bred in, Ne'er to be match'd in modern reading, But by his namesake, Charles of Sweden THE PROGRESS OF POETRY. THE farmer's goose, who in the stubble But, when she must be turn'd to graze, And round the barren common strays, |