Yet leaving her 'tis me that you pursue
Without one fingle charm, but being new.
How vile is man! how I deteft their ways
Of artful falfhood, and defigning praise !
Tastelefs, an eafy happiness you flight,
Ruin your joy, and mischief your delight.
Why should poor pug (the mimic of your kind)
Wear a rough chain, and be to box confin'd?
Some cup, perhaps, he breaks, or tears a fan,
While roves unpunish'd the deftroyer, man.
Not bound by vows, and unrestrain'd by shame,
In fport you break the heart, and rend the fame.
Not that your art can be successful here,
Th' already plunder'd need no robber fear:
Nor fighs, nor charms, nor flatteries can move,
Too well fecur'd against a fecond love,
Once, and but once, that devil charm'd my mind;
To reafon deaf, to observation blind;
I idly hop'd (what cannot love perfuade !)
My fondness equal'd, and my love repay'd;
Slow to diftruft, and willing to believe,
Long hush'd my doubts, and did myself deceive:
But oh! too foon →→→→ this tale would ever laft;
Sleep, fleep, my wrongs, and let me think 'em paft..
For you, who mourn with counterfeited grief,
And ask fo boldly like a begging thief,
May foon fome other nymph inflict the pain,
You know fo well with cruel art to feign.
Though long you sported have with Cupid's dart,
You may fee eyes, and you may feel a heart.
So the brisk wits, who stop the evening coach,
Laugh at the fear that follows their approach;
With idle mirth, and haughty fcorn despise
The paffenger's pale cheek, and staring eyes :
But feiz'd by Juftice, find a fright no jeft,
And all the terror doubled in their breast.
I view this various fcene with equal eyes :
In crowded courts I find myself alone,
And pay my worship to a nobler throne.
Long fince the value of this world I know,
Pity the madness, and defpife the show.
Well as I can my
And wait for my difmiffion without fear.
Seldom I mark mankind's detefted ways,
Not hearing cenfure, nor affecting praise;
And, unconcern'd, my future state. I trust
To that fole Being, merciful and just.
ooo ooooooooooooooooooooo oo
An Address of the STATUES at STOWE, to Lord COBHAM, on his Return to his Gardens.
FROM every Mufe and every art thy own,
Thy bow'rs our theatres, thy mind our throne!
Hail to thy virtues manumiz'd from state;
Hail! to thy leifure to be wifely great.
Fetter'd by duties and to forms enflav'd,
How timely have thy years a remnant fav'd!
To taste that freedom which thy fword maintain'd,
And lead in letter'd eafe, a life unpain❜d:
So Scipio (Carthage fall'n) refign'd his plume,
And fmil'd at the forgetfulness of Rome.
O greatly blefs'd! whofe evening sweetest shines,
And, in unclouded flowness, calm declines!
While free reflection with reverted eye,
Wan'd from hot noon-tide and a troubled fky,
Divides life well: the largest part, long known
Thy country's claim; the last and best thy own.
Here while detach'd, thy felf-fupported foul
Refumes dominion, and escapes controul;
Moves with a grandeur, monarchs wifh in vain,
Above all fears, ftorms, dangers, hopes or pain;
A glance fometimes from thy fafe fummit throw,
And fee the dufty world look dim below:
Through the dark throng difcern huge flaves of pride
Should'ring unheeded Happiness afide;
Thwarted and pufh'd and lab'ring into name,
And dignify'd with all the dirt of fame;
Then with a smile fuperior, turn away,
And lop th' exub'rance of fome ftraggling spray;
Wind through thy mazes to ferene delight,
And from the bursting bubbles shade thy fight.
Yet where thou shin'ft, like heav'n behind a cloud, Moving like light, all piercing, though not loud; The Mufe fhall find thee in thy bleft retreat, And breathe this honeft wifh at Cobham's feet: Fresh as thy lakes, may all thy pleasures flow!. And breezy like thy groves, thy paffions blow! Wide as thy fancy, be thy fpreading praise ! And long and lovely as thy walks, thy days!
ET others hail the rising fun,
I bow to that whofe courfe is run,
Which fets in endless night;
Whofe rays benignant blefs'd this isle,
Made peaceful Nature round us fmile
With calm, but cheerful light.
No bounty past provokes my praise,
No future profpects prompt my lays,
From real grief they flow;
I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My forrows fall with Britain's tears,
And join a nation's woe."
|