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And all the thunder of the battle rise!
TO A CHILD OF QUALITY FIVE YEARS OLD
THE AUTHOR THEN FORTY
Lords, knights, and squires, the num'rous band
To show their passions by their letters.
My pen amongst the rest I took,
Lest those bright eyes that cannot read
Nor quality nor reputation
Forbid me yet my flame to tell;
For while she makes her silk-worms beds
She may receive and own my flame;
For though the strictest prudes should know it,
Then, too, alas! when she shall tear
The lines some younger rival sends,
And we shall still continue friends;
For, as our diff'rent ages move,
'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!) That I shall be past making love
When she begins to comprehend it.
Spare, gen'rous victor, spare the slave
In the dispute whate'er I said,
My heart was by my tongue belied,
TO A LADY
SHE REFUSING TO CONTINUE A DISPUTE WITH ME AND LEAVING ME IN THE ARGUMENT
You, far from danger as from fear,
Might have sustained an open fight:
Your eyes are always in the right.
Why, fair one, would you not rely
On Reason's force with Beauty's joined?
I must at once be deaf and blind.
Alas! not hoping to subdue,
I only to the fight aspired;
But she, howe'er of vict'ry sure,
Contemns the wreath too long delayed, And, armed with more immediate pow'r, Calls cruel silence to her aid.
Deeper to wound, she shuns the fight;
She drops her arms, to gain the field; Secures her conquest by her flight,
And triumphs when she seems to yield.
So when the Parthian turned his steed
Dear Thomas, didst thou never pop
A squirrel spend his little rage
Still pleased with their own verses' sound;
The merchant, to secure his treasure,
My softest verse, my darling lyre,
That I should sing, that I should play.
My lyre I tune, my voice I raise,
But with my numbers mix my sighs;
I fix my soul on Chloe's eyes.
Fair Chloe blushed; Euphelia frowned;
Remarked how ill we all dissembled.
A BETTER ANSWER
Dear Chloe, how blubbered is that pretty face!
How canst thou presume thou hast leave to destroy
The beauties which Venus but lent to thy keeping? Those looks were designed to inspire love and joy;
More ord'nary eyes may serve people for weeping.
To be vexed at a trifle or two that I writ,
Your judgment at once and my passion you wrong; You take that for fact which will scarce be found wit: Od's life! must one swear to the truth of a song?
What I speak, my fair Chloe, and what I write, shows
I court others in verse, but I love thee in prose;
And they have my whimsies, but thou hast my heart.
The god of us verse-men (you know, child), the sun,
So when I am wearied with wand'ring all day,
To thee, my delight, in the evening I come: No matter what beauties I saw in my way;
They were but my visits, but thou art my home.
Then finish, dear Chloe, this pastoral war,
And let us like Horace and Lydia agree; For thou art a girl as much brighter than her As he was a poet sublimer than me.
A DESCRIPTION OF THE MORNING Now hardly here and there a hackney-coach, Appearing, showed the ruddy Morn's approach. . The slipshod 'prentice from his master's door Had pared the dirt, and sprinkled round the floor. Now Moll had whirled her mop with dextrous airs, Prepared to scrub the entry and the stairs. The youth with broomy stumps began to trace The kennel edge, where wheels had worn the place. The small-coal man was heard with cadence deep, Till drowned in shriller notes of chimney-sweep. Duns at his lordship's gate began to meet, And brick-dust Moll had screamed through half a street. The turnkey now his flock returning sees,
Duly let out a-nights to steal for fees.