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With temper, firm, with spirit, fage,
The Mansfields of each future age.

And this prime bleffing is to spring
From youth in purple! from a king !
Who, true to his imperial truft,
His greatness founds in being just;
Prepares, like yon afcending fun,
His glorious race with joy to run
And, where his gracious eye appears,
To bless the world he lights and chears!

Such worth with equal voice to fing, Urania, strike thy boldest string ; And truth, whose voice alone is praise, That here inspires, shall guide the lays. Begin! awake his gentle ear With sounds that monarchis rarely hear. He merits, let him know our love, And you record, what I approve.

She ended : and the heaven-born maid, With soft surprize, his form survey’d. She saw what chastity of thought, Within his atainless bofom wrought; Then fix'd en earth her fober eyes And, pausing, offer'd this reply.

Nor pomp of song, nor paint of art, Such truths should to the world impart. My task is but, in fimple verse, These promis'd wonders to rehcarse : And when on these our verse we raife, The plainest is the noble prilo.

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Yet more; a virtuous doubt remains :
Would fuch a prince permit my strains ?
Deserving, but still fhunning fame,
The homage due he might disclaim.
A prince, who rules, to save, mankind,
His praise would, in their virtue, find;
Would deem their strict regard to laws,
Their faith and worth, his best applause.
Then, Britons, your just tribute bring,
In deeds, to emulate your king;
In virtues, to redeem your age
From venal views and party-rage.
On his example safely rest ;
He calls, he courts you to be blest;
As friends, as brethren, to unite
In one firm league of just and right,

My part is laft; if Britain yet
A lover boasts of truth and wit,
To him these grateful lays to send,
The Monarch's and the Muse's friend;'
And whose fair name, in sacred rhymes,
My voice may give to latest times.

She said; and, after thinking o'er
The men in place near half a score,
To strike at once all scandal mute,
The goddess found, and fix'd on BUTE.

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WELL-now, I think, we fhall be wiser,

Cries Grub, who reads the Advertiser,
Here's Truth in Rhyme—a glorious treat!
It surely must abuse, the great;
Perhaps the king; - without dispute
'Twill fall most devilish hard on Bute.

Thrice he reviews his parting shilling,
At last resolves, 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 fense, nor satyr-
Herc 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 stop in their destructive course,
Domestic 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 seen, strange sight!
A court both virtuous and polite,
Where merit best can recommend
Aud fcience finds a constant friend.

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



Upon reading fome Verses, written by a young

Lady at a Boarding-School. September 1760.


POLL O lately sent to know,

If he had any fons below;
For, by the trafh he long has seen
In male and female Magazine,
A hundred quires not worth a groat,
The 'race must be extinct, he thought."

His messenger to court repairs ;
Walks softly with the croud up stairs :
But when he had his errand told,
The courtiers sneer'd, both


and old. Augustus 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, strumpets, rakes,
Talk'd much of commerce, whist, and Itakes;
Who tips the wink, who drops the card ::
But not one word of Verse or Bard.

The ftage, Apollo's old domain,
Where his true fons were wont to reign,
His courier now past 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 honest Gideon's classic stile)
Made our poor Nuncio stare and smile.

And now the clock had struck eleven :
The messenger must back to heaven;
But, just as he his wings had tyd,
Look'd up Queen-Square, the North-east side.
A blooming creature there he found,

pen and ink, and books around,
Alone, and writing by a taper :
He read unseen, then stole her paper.
It much amus’d him on his way;
And reaching heaven by break of day,
He shew'd Apollo wliat 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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