On your old batter'd mare you'll needs be gone,
(No matter whether on four legs or none)
Splash, plunge, and stumble, as you scour the heath;
All swear at Morden 'tis on life or death :
Wildly thro' Wareham ftreets you scamper on,
Raise all the dogs and voters in the town;
Then fly for fix long dirty miles as bad,
That Corfe and Kingiton gentry

think

you mad.
And all this furious riding is to prove
Your high respect, it seems, and eager love :
And yet, that mighty honour to obtain,
Banks, Shaftesbury, Doddington may send in vain.
Before you go, we curse the noise you make,
And bless the moment that you turn your back :
As for myself, I own it to your face,
I love good eating, and I take my glass :
But sure 'tis strange, dear fir, that this should be
In you amusement, but a fault in me.
All this is bare refining on a name,
To make a difference where the fault's the same.

My father fold me to your service here,
For this fine livery, and four pounds a year.
A livery you should wear as well as I,
And this I'll prove-but lay your cudgel by.
You serve your passions—Thus, without a jeft,
Both are but fellow-fervants at the best.
Yourself, good Sir, are play'd by your desires,
A mere tall puppet dancing on the wires.

P. Who

P. Who, at this rate of talking, can be free?

S. The brave, wise, honest man, and only he :
All else are slaves alike, the world around,
Kings on the throne, and beggars on the ground:
He, fir, is proof to grandeur, pride, or pelf,
And (greater ftill) is master of himself:
Not to-and-fro by fears and factions hurld,
But loose to all the interests of the world :
And while that world turns round, entire and whole,
He keeps the sacred tenor of his soul ;
In every turn of fortune still the same,
As gold unchang’d, or brighter from the flame:
Collected in himself, with godlike pride,
He sees the darts of envy glance aside ;
And, fix'd like Atlas, while the tempefts blow,
Smiles at the idle storms that roar below.
One such you know, a layman, to your shame,
And yet the honour of your blood and name.
If you can such a character maintain,
You too are free, and I'm

your

slave again. But when in Hemkirk’s pi&tures you delight, More than myself, to see two drunkards fight; “ Fool, rogue, sot, blockhead,” or such names are mine : Your's are a Connoisseur,” or “

Deep Divine.”
I'm chid for loving a luxurious bit,
The facred prize of learning, worth, and wit:
And yet some sell their lands these bits to buy ;
Then, pray, who suffers most from luxury ?
I'm chid, 'tis true; but then I pawn no plate,
I seal no bonds, I mortgage no estate.

Besides,

2

Befides, high living, fir, muft wear you out
With furfeits, qualms, a fever, or the gout.
By fome new pleasures are you ftill engrofs'd,
And when you fave an hour, you think it loft.
To fports, plays, races, from your books you run,
And like all company, except your own.

You hunt, drink, fleep, or (idler ftill) you rhyme;
Why?-but to banish thought, and murder time:
And yet that thought, which you discharge in vain,
Like a foul-loaded piece, recoils again.

P. Tom, fetch a cane, a whip, a club, a stone,-
S. For what?

P. A fword, a piftol, or a gun :

I'll fhoot the dog.

S. Lord! who would be a wit?

He's in a mad, or in a rhyming fit.

P. Fly, fly, you rascal, for your spade and fork;
For once I'll fet your lazy bones to work :

Fly, or I'll fend you back, without a groat,
To the bleak mountains where you firft were caught.

THE

BY

RECANTATION.
A N O D E.

Y love too long depriv'd of rest,
(Fell tyrant of the human breast!)
His vaffal long, and worn with pain,
Indignant late I fpurn'd the chain;
In verse, in profe, I fung and fwore
No charms fhould e'er enflave me more,
Nor neck, nor hair, nor lip, nor eye,
Again fhould force one tender figh.

Asi

As, taught by heav’n’s informing power,
From every fruit and every flower
That nature opens to the view,
The bee extracts the nectar-dew;
A'vagrant thus, and free to change
From fair to fair, I vow'd to range,
And
part

from each without regret As pleas'd and happy as I met.

Then Freedom's praise inspir'd my tongue, With Freedom's praise the vallies rung, And every night and every day My heart thus pour’d th' enraptur'd lay: “ My cares are gone, my forrows cease, 6 My breast regains its wonted peace, “ And joy and hope returning prove, “ That Reason is too strong for Love."

Such was my boast—but, ah ! how vain !
How short was Reason’s vaunted reign!
The firm resolve I form'd ere-while
How weak oppos’d to Clara's smile!
Chang'd is the strain-The vallies round
With Freedom's praise no more resound,
But every night and every day
My full heart pours the alter'd lay.

Offended deity, whose power
My rebel tongue but now forswore,
Accept my penitence fincere,
My crime forgive, and grant my prayer!

Let

Let not thy flave, condemn'd to mourn,
With unrequited paffion burn;

With Love's foft thoughts her breast inspire,
And kindle there an equal fire!

It is not beauty's gaudy flower,
(The empty triumph of an hour)
Nor practis'd wiles of female art
That now fubdue my deftin'd heart:

O no!-'Tis heav'n, whose wondrous hand
A tranfcript of itself hath plann'd,.
And to each outward grace hath join'd
Each lovelier feature of the mind.

Thefe charms fhall laft, when others fly,
When rofes fade, and lilies die;
When that dear eye's declining beam
Its living fire no more shall stream:
Bleft then, and happy in my chain,
The fong of Freedom flows in vain ;
Nor Reason's harsh reproof I fear,
For Reafon's felf is Paffion here.

O dearer far than wealth or fame,
My daily thought, my nightly dream,
If yet no youth's fuccessful art

(Sweet hope!) hath touch'd the gentle heart,
If yet no fwain hath bless'd thy choice,
Indulgent hear thy Damon's voice;
From doubts, from fears his bosom free,
And bid him live-for love and thee!