"Twas ere a barge had made so rich a fraight
As chocolate, dust-gold, and bitts of eight;
Ere wines from France, and Muscovadoe too,
Without the which the drink will scarsely doe;
From western isles ere fruits and delicasies
Did rot maids' teeth and spoil their handsome faces.
Or ere these times did chance, the noise of war
Was from our towns and hearts removed far.
No bugbear comets in the chrystal air
Did drive our Christian planters to despair.
No sooner pagan malice peepèd forth
But valour snib'd it. Then were men of worth,
Who by their prayers slew thousands; angel-like,
Their weapons are unseen with which they strike.
T'hen had the churches rest; as yet the coales
Were covered up in most contentious souls:
Freeness in judgment, union in affection,
Dear love, sound truth, they were our grand protection
Then were the times in which our councells sate,
These gave prognosticks of our future fate.
If these be longer lived our hopes increase.
These warrs will usher in a longer peace.—
But if New England's love die in its youth,
The grave will open next for blessed truth.
This theame is out of date, the peacefull hours
When castles needed not, but pleasant bowers.
Not ink, but bloud and tears now serve the turn
To draw the figure of New England's urne.
New England's hour of passion is at hand;
No power except divine can it withstand.
Scarce hath her glass of fifty years run out,
But her old prosperous steeds turn heads about.
Tracking themselves back to their poor begir nings,
To fear and fare upon their fruits of sinnings.
So that the mirrour of the Christian world
Lyes burnt to heaps in part, her streamers furled.
Grief sighs, joyes flee, and dismal fears surprize
Not dastard spirits only, but the wise.
Thus have the fairest hopes deceived the eye
Of the big-swoln expectant standing by:
Thus the proud ship, after a little turn,
Sinks into Neptune's arms to find its urne;
Thus hath the heir to many thousands born
Been in an instant from the mother torn:
Fven thus thine infant cheeks begin to pale,
And thy supporters through great losses fail.
This is the Prologue to thy future woe,
The Epilogue no mortal yet can know.
OME wit of old-such wits of old there were-
Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care
By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,
Called clear blank paper every infant mind,
Where still, as opening Sense her dictates wrote,
Fair Virtue put a seal, or Vice a blot.
The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;
Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.
I can you pard my presumption ?-1,
I-can
No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.
Various the papers various wants produce→→
The wants of fashion, elegance, and use;
Men are as various; and, if right I scan,
Each sort of paper represents some man.
Pray, note the fop-half powder and half lace-
Nice as a bandbox were his dwelling-place;
He's the gilt paper, which apart you store,
And luck from vulgar hands in the scrutoire.
Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,
Are copy paper, of inferior worth;
Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed,
Free to all pens, and prompt at every need.
The wretch whom Avarice bids to pinch and spare,
Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,
Is coarse brown paper; such as peddlers choose
To wrap up wares, which better men will use.
Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys
Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.
Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,
He's a true sinking paper, past all doubt.
The retail politician's anxious thought
Deems this side always right, and that stark naught;
He foams with censure-with applause he raves--
A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves:
He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,
While such a thing as fools-cap has a name.
The hasty gentleman whose blood runs high,
Who picks a quarrel if you step awry,
Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure:
What is he? What? touch-paper, to be sure.
What are the poets, take them as they fall,
Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all
Them and their works in the same class you'll find;
They are the mere waste paper of mankind.
Dbserve the maiden, innocently sweet,
he's fair white paper, an unsullied sheet,
On which the happy man, whom Fate ordains,
May write his name, and take her for his pains.
One instance more, and only one, I'll bring;
Tis the great man, who scorns a little thing-
thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are nis
on the feelings of his heart alone:
genuine royal paper is his breast;
the kinds most precious, purest, best,
HOW blest the brainless fop, whose prais
Is doomed to grace these happy day,
When well-bred vice can genius teach,
And fame is placed in folly's reach;
Impertinence all tastes can hit.
And every rascal is a wit.
The lowest dunce, without despairing,
May learn the true sublime of swearing;
Learn the nice art of jests obscene,
While ladies wonder what they mean;
The heroism of brazen lungs,
The rhetoric of eternal tongues;
While whim usurps the name of spirit,
And impudence takes place of merit,
And every moneyed clown and dunce
Commences gentleman at once.
For now, by easy rules of trade,
Mechanic gentlemen are made!
From handicrafts of fashion born;
Those very arts so much their scorn.
To tailors half themselves they owe,
Who make the clothes that make the beau.
Lo! from the seats where, fops to bless
Learned artists fix the forms of dress,
And sit in consultation grave
On folded skirt, or straitened sleeve,
The coxcomb trips with sprightly haste,
In all the flush of modern taste;
Oft turning, if the day be fair,
To view his shadow's graceful air;
Well pleased, with eager eye runs o'er
The laced suit glittering gay before;
The ruffle, where from opened vest
The rubied brooch adorns the breast;
The coat, with lengthening waist behind, in the wind;
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