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The sprightly court that wander up and down
From gudgeons to a race, from town to town,
All, all are fled; but them I well can spare,
For I'm so dull I have no business there.
I have forgot whatever there I knew,
Why men one stocking tye with ribbon blue :
Why others medals wear, a fine gilt thing,
That at their breasts hang dangling by a string;
(Yet stay, I think that I to mind recal,
For once * a squirt was raised by Windsor wall).
I know no officer of court; nay more,
No dog of court, their favourite before.
Should Veny fawn, I should not understand her,.
Nor who committed incest for Legander.
Unpolish'd thus, an errant scholar grown,
What should I do but sit and coo alone,
And thee my absent mate, for ever moan.
Thus 'tis sometimes, and sorrow plays its part,
Till other thoughts of thee revive my heart.
For whilst with wit, with women, and with wine,
Thy glad heart beats, and noble face does shine,
Thy joys we at this distance feel and know;
Thou kindly wishest it with us were so.
Then thee wename; this heard,cried James,For him,
Leap up, thou sparkling wine and kiss the brim :

* Sir Samuel Moreland.

Crosses attend the man who dares to flinch,
Great as that man deserves who drinks not Finch.
But these are empty joys without you two,
We drink your names, alas ! but where are you?
My dear, whom I more cherish in my breast
Than by thy own soft muse can be exprest;
True to thy word, afford one visit more,
Else I shall grow, from him thou loved'st before,
A greasy blockhead fellow in a gown,
(Such as is, Sir, a cousin of your own);
With my own hair, a band, and ten long nails,
And wit that at a quibble never fails.


Hanley, near Tenbury, 1668—1710.

The author of Phædra and Hippolitus. He has left but

two poems in English.



To a Friend. SIR, Since our Isis silently deplores The bard who spread her fame to distant shores : Since nobler pens their mournful lays suspend, My honest zeal, if not my verse, commend, Forgive the poet, and approve the friend. Your care had long his fleeting life restrained, One table fed you, and one bed contained; For his dear sake long restless nights you bore, While rattling coughs his heaving vessels tore; Much was his pain, but your affliction more.

Oh! had no summons from the noisy gown
Call’d thee, unwilling, to the nauseous town,
Thy love had o'er the dull disease prevailid,
Thy mirth had cured where baffled physic faild;
But since the will of Heaven his fate decreed,
To thy kind care my worthless lines succeed :
Fruitless our hopes, though pious our essays,
Your's to preserve a friend, and mine to praise.

Oh! might I paint himn in Miltonian verse, With strains like those he sung on Glo'sters herse; But with the meaner tribe I'm forc'd to chime, And wanting strength to rise, descend to rhyme.

With other fire his glorious Blenheim shines, And all the battle thunders in his lines : His nervous verse great Boileau's strength transcends, And France to Philips, as to Churchill, bends..

Oh! various bard, you all our powers controul, You now disturb, and now divert the soul : Milton and Butler in thy muse combine; Above the last thy manly beauties shine ; For, as I've seen, when rival wits contend, One gaily charge, one gravely wise defend ; This on quick turns and points in vain relies, This with a look demure, and steady eyes, With dry rebukes, or sneering praise, replies.

So thy grave lines extort a juster smile,
Reach Butler's fancy, but surpass his style ;
He speaks Scarron's low phrase in humble strains,
In thee the solemn air of great Cervantes reigns.

What sounding lines his abject themes express! What shining words the pompous shilling dress! There, there my cell, immortal made, outvies The frailer piles which o'er its ruins rise. In her best light the Comic Muse appears, When she, with borrowed pride, the buskin wears.

So when nurse Nokes, to act young Ammon tries, With shambling legs, long chin, and foolish eyes, With dangling hands he strokes the imperial robe, And, with a cuckold's air, commands the globe; The pomp and sound the whole buffoon display'd, And Ammon's son more mirth than Gomez made.

Forgive, dear shade, the scene my folly draws; Thy strains divert the grief thy ashes cause : When Orpheus sings, the ghosts no more complain, But, in his lulling music, lose their pain : So charm the sallies of thy Georgic Muse, So calm our sorrows, and our joys infuse :

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