The prince who kept the world in awe,
The judge whose dictate fix'd the law,
The rich, the poor, the great, the small,
Are levell'd; Death confounds them all.
Then think not that we reptiles share
Such cates, such elegance of fare;
The only true and real good
Of man was never vermin's food:
'Tis seated in th' immortal mind;
Virtue distinguishes mankind,

And that (as yet ne'er harbour'd here)
Mounts with the soul we know not where.
So, Good-man Sexton, since the case
Appears with such a dubious face,
To neither I the cause determine,

For different tastes please different vermin."

AYE AND NO.

A FABLE1.

IN Fable all things hold discourse,

Then words, no doubt, must talk of course,
Once on a time, near Cannon-row,
Two hostile adverbs, Aye and No,
Were hastening to the field of fight,
And front to front stood opposite;
Before each general join'd the van,
Aye, the more courteous knight, began.
"Stop, peevish particle! beware!
I'm told you are not such a bear,`,
But sometimes yield when offer'd fair.
Suffer yon folks awhile to tattle;
"Tis we who must decide the battle.
Whene'er we war on yonder stage,
With various fate and equal rage,
The nation trembles at each blow
That No gives Aye, and Aye gives No;
Yet, in expensive long contention,
We gain nor office, grant, or pension.
Why then should kinsfolks quarrel thus ?
(For two of you make one of us.)
To some wise statesman let us go,
Where each his proper use may know :
He may admit two such commanders,
And make those wait who serv'd in Flanders.
Let's quarter on a great man's tongue,
A treasury lord, not maister Young.
Obsequious at his high command,
Aye shall march forth to tax the land;
Impeachments No can best resist,
And Aye support the civil list:
Aye, quick as Cæsar, wins the day,
And No, like Fabius, by delay.
Sometimes in mutual sly disguise,

Let Ayes seem Nos, end Nos seem Ayes;
Ayes be in courts denials meant,
And Nos in bishops give consent."

Thus Aye propos'd-and, for reply,
No, for the first time, answer'd Aye.
They parted with a thousand kisses,
And fight e'er since for pay, like Swisses.

DUKE UPON DUKE':

AN EXCELLENT NEW BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF, CHEVY - CHACE.

To lordlings proud I tune my lay,

Who feast in bower or hall:
Though dukes they be, to dukes I say,,
That pride will have a fall.

Now that this same it is right sooth,

Full plainly doth appear,

From what befel John duke of Guise2,
And Nic of Lancastere3.

When Richard Coeur-de-Lion reign'd,
(Which means a lion's heart)
Like him his barons rag'd and roar'd;
Each play'd a lion's part.

A word and blow was then enough:
Such honour did them prick,
If you but turn'd your cheek, a cuff;
And, if your a―se, a kick.

Look in their face, they tweak'd your nose,
At every turn fell to 't;

Come near, they trod upon your toes;
They fought from head to foot.

Of these the duke of Lancastere

Stood paramount in pride;

He kick'd and cuff'd, and tweak'd and trod His foes, and friends beside.

Firm on his front his beaver sate;

So broad, it bid his chin;

For why? he deem'd no man his mate,
And fear'd to tan his skin.

With Spanish wool he dy'd his cheek,
With essence oil'd his hair;
No vixen civet-cat so sweet,

Nor could so scratch and tear.

Right tall he made himself to show,
Though made full short by God:"
And, when all other dukes did bow,
This duke did only nod.

Yet courteous, blithe, and debonnair,
To Guise's duke was he:
Was ever such a loving pair?

How could they disagree?

Oh, thus it was: he lov'd him dear,
And cast how to requite him;
And having no friend left but this,
He deem'd it meet to fight him.
Forthwith he drench'd his desperate quill,
And thus he did indite:

"This eve at whist ourself will play,
"Sir Duke! be here to-night."

"Ah no! ah no!" the guileless Guise Demurely did reply;

I cannot go, nor yet can stand,

So sore the gout have I.

The duke in wrath call'd for his steeds,

And fiercely drove them on;

Lord lord! how rattled then thy stones, O kingly Kensington *!

All in a trice he rush'd on Guise,

Thrust out his lady dear;

He tweak'd his nose, trod on his toes,
And smote him on the ear.

But mark, how midst of victory

Fate plays her old dog-trick!

Up leap'd duke John, and knock'd him down, And so down fell duke Nic.

Alas, oh Nic! oh Nic, alas!

Right did thy gossip call thee: As who should say, alas the day

When John of Guise shall maul thee! For on thee did he clap his chair,

And on that chair did sit;

And look'd as if he meant therein what was not fit.

To do

Up didst thou look, oh, woeful duke!

Thy mouth yet durst not ope, Certes for fear of finding there

A t-d instead of trope.

"Lie there, thou caitiff vile!" quoth Guise,
No sheet is here to save thee:
The casement it is shut likewise;
Beneath my feet I have thee.

"If thou hast aught to speak, speak out,"
Then Lancastere did cry,

"Knows't thou not me, nor yet thyself? Who thou, and who am I?

"Know'st thou not me, who (God be prais'd) Have brawl'd and quarrel'd more,

Than all the line of Lancastere,

That battled heretofore?

"In senates fam'd for many a speech,

And (what some awe must give ye, Though laid thus low beneath thy breach)

Still of the council privy;

"Still of the dutchy chancellor :

Durante life I have it; And turn, as now thou dost on me, Mine a-e on them that gaye it." But now the servants they rush'd in; And duke Nic, up leap'd he: "I will not cope against such odds, But, Guise! I'll fight with thee: "To morrow with thee will I fight Under the green-wood tree." "No, not to morrow, but to night," (Quoth Guise) "I'll fight with thee."

And now the Sun declining low

Bestreak'd with blood the skies; When, with his sword at saddle-bow, Rode forth the valiant Guise.

Long brandish'd he the blade in air,

Long look'd the field all o'er:
At length he spy'd the merry men brown,
And eke the coach and four.
From out the boot bold Nicholas
Did wave his wand so white,
As pointing out the gloomy glade
Wherein he meant to fight.

All in that dreadful hour so calm
Was Lancastere to see,

As if he meant to take the air,

Or only take a fee:

And so he did-for to New Court

His rolling wheels did run:

Not that he shunn'd the doubtful strife;
But business must be done,

Back in the dark, by Brompton-park,
He turn'd up through the Gore!
So slunk to Camden-house so high,
All in his coach and four.

Mean-while duke Guise did fret and fume,
A sight it was to see,

Benumb'd beneath the evening dew

Under the green-wood tree.

Then, wet and weary, home he far'd,
Sore muttering all the way,

"The day I meet him, Nic shall rue
The cudgel of that day,

"Mean time on every pissing-post
Paste we this recreant's name,
So that each pisser-by shall read,
And piss against the same."

Now God preserve our gracious king,
And grant his nobles all

May learn this lesson from duke Nic,
That pride will have a fall!

DIONE.

A PASTORAL TRAGEDY.

Sunt numina amanti,

Sævit et injustâ lege relicta Venus.
Tibull. Eleg. v. Lib. 1.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

MEN.

Evander under the name of Lycidas Cleanthes.

Shepherds.

WOMEN.

Dione under the name of Alexis.
Parthenia.
Laura.

SCENE, ARCADIA

ACT I. SCENE I.

A plain, at the foot of a steep craggy mountain

DIONE. LAURA.

LAURA.

Seek not these horrid caverns of despair;

trace thy steps, the midnight air I bore, ad the brown desert, and unshelter'd moor: ree times the lark has sung his matin lay, 1 rose on dewy wing to meet the day, ce first. I found thee, stretch'd in pensive mood, ere laurels border Ladon's silver flood.

DIONE.

let my soul with grateful thanks o'erflow! to thy hand my daily life I owe.

e the weak lamb, you rais'd me from the plain, > faint to bear bleak winds and beating rain; ch day I share thy bowl and clean repast, ch night thy roof defends the chilly blast. t vain is all thy friendship, vain thy care; get a wretch abandon'd to despair.

LAURA.

spair will fly thee, when thou shalt impart e fatal secret that torments thy heart; close thy sorrows to my faithful ear, truct these eyes to give thee tear for tear. ve, love's the cause; our forests speak thy flame, e rocks have learnt to sigh Evander's name. aultering shame thy bashful tongue restrain, hou hast look'd, and blush'd, and sigh'd in vain; 7, in what grove thy lovely shepherd strays, Il me what mountains warble with his lays; ither I'll speed me, and with moving art aw soft confessions from his melting heart.

DIONE.

y generous care has touch'd my secret woe. ve bids these scalding tears incessant flow. -fated love! O say, ye sylvan maids, ao range wide forests and sequester'd shades, y where Evander bled, point out the ground at yet is purple with the savage wound. nder he lies; I hear the bird of prey; gh o'er those cliffs the raven wings his way; irk how he croaks! he scents the murder near. may no greedy beak his visage tear! ield him, ye Cupids; strip the Paphian grove, id strow unfading myrtle o'er my love! wn, heaving heart.

LAURA.

-The mournful tale disclose.

DIONE.

t not my tears intrude on thy repose.
t if thy friendship still the cause request;

I speak, though sorrow rend my labouring breast.
how then, fair shepherdess, no honest swain
ught me the duties of the peaceful plain;
aus'd to sweet content, no flocks I keep,
or browzing goats that overhang the steep.
orn where Orchomenos' proud turrets shine,
trace my birth from long illustrious line,
'hy was I train'd amidst Arcadia's court?
>ve ever revels in that gay resort.

hene'er Evander past, my smitten heart eav'd frequent sighs, and felt unusual smart. h! hadst thou seen with what sweet grace he mov'd!

et why that wish? for Laura then had lov'd.

LAURA.

istrust me not; thy secret wrongs impart.

DIONE.

orgive the sallies of a breaking heart. vander's sighs his mutual flame coufest, The growing passion labour'd in his breast;

Yet sure some turtle's love has equal'd mine,
Who, when the hawk hath snatch'd her mate away,
Hath never known the glad return of day.

When my fond father saw my faded eye,
And on my livid check the roses die;
When catching sighs my wasted bosom mov'd,
My looks, my sighs, confirm'd him that I lov'd.
He knew not that Evander was my flame,
Evander dead! my passion still the same!
He came, he threaten'd; with paternal sway,
Cleanthes nam'd, and fix'd the nuptial day:
O cruel kindness! too severely prest!

1 scorn his honours, and his wealth detest.

LAURA,

How vain is force! Love ne'er can be compell'd.

DIONE.

Though bound my duty, yet my heart rebell'd. One night, when sleep had hush'd all busy spies, And the pale Moon had journey'd half the skies, Softly I rose and dress'd; with silent tread, Unbarr'd the gates, and to these mountains fled.

-If pity move Your generous bosom, pity those who love. There late arriv'd among our sylvan race A stranger shepherd, who with lonely pace Visits those mountain-pines at dawn of day, Where oft Parthenia takes her early way To rouze the chase; mad with his amorous pain, He stops and raves; then sullen walks again. Parthenia's name is borne by passing gales, And talking hills repeat it to the dales. Come, let us from this vale of sorrow go, Nor let the mournful scene prolong thy woe.

SCENE II'.

[Exeunt. Shepherds and Shepherdesses (crowned with garlands of cypress and yew) bearing the body of Menalcas.

1 SHEPHERD.

Here gently rest the corse-With faultering breath
Thus spake Menalcas on the verge of death:
"Belov'd Palemon, hear a dying friend;
See, where yon bills with craggy brows ascend,
Low in the valley where the mountain grows,
There first I saw her, there began my woes.
When I am cold, may there this clay be laid!
There often strays the dear, the cruel maid;
There, as she walks, perhaps you'll hear her say,
(While a kind gushing tear shall force its way)

How could my stubborn heart relentless prove? Ah, poor Menalcas-all thy fault was love!"

2 SHEPHERD.

When pitying lions o'er a carcase groan,
And hungry tigers bleeding kids bemoan;
When the lean wolf laments the mangled sheep;
Then shall Parthenia o'er Menalcas weep.

1 SHEPHERD.

When famish'd panthers seek their morning food, And monsters roar along the desert wood;

When hissing vipers rustle through the brake,
Or in the path-way rears the speckled snake;
The wary swain th' approaching peril spies,
And through some distant road securely flies.
Fly then, ye swains, from beauty's surer wound.
Such was the fate our poor Menalcas found!
2 SHEPHERD.

What shepherd does not mourn Menalcas slain!
Kill'd by a barbarous woman's proud disdain !
Whoe'er attempts to bend her scornful mind,
Cries to the deserts, and pursues the wind.
1 SHEPHERD.

With every grace Menalcas was endow'd,
His merits dazzled all the sylvan crowd.
If you would know his pipe's melodious sound,
Ask all the Echoes of these hills around,
For they have learnt his strains; who shall rehearse
The strength, the cadence of his tuneful verse?
Go, read those lofty poplars; there you'll find
Some tender sonnet grow on every rind.

1 SHEPHERD.

Why was Parthenia form'd of softest mould?
Why does her heart such savage nature hold?
O ye kind gods! or all her charms efface,
Or tame her heart-so spare the shepherd race.
2 SHEPHERD.

As fade the flowers which on the grave I cast;
So may Parthenia's transient beauty waste!
1 SHEPHERD.

What woman ever counts the fleeting years,
Or sees the wrinkle which her forehead wears?
Thinking her features never shall decay,
This swain she scorns, from that she turns away.
But know, as when the rose her bud unfolds,
Awhile each breast the short-liv'd fragrance holds;
When the dry stalk lets drop her shrivel'd pride,
The lovely ruin's ever thrown aside.
So shall Parthenia be.

I come to clear a virgin's injur'd name.
If I'm a basilisk, the danger fly,
Shun the swift glances of my venom'd eye:
If I'm a murderer, why approach ye near,
And to the dagger lay your bosom bare?
1 Shepherd.

the novel of Marcella in Don Quixote.

Love is not in our power.

PARTHENIA.

Why will intruding man my peace destroy?
Let me content and solitude enjoy;
Free was I born; my freedom to maintain,
Early I sought the unambitious plain.
Most women's weak resolves, like reeds, will ply,
Shake with each breath, and bend with every sigh;
Mine, like an oak, whose firm roots deep descend,
Nor breath of love can shake, nor sigh can bend.
If ye unhappy Lycidas would save;
Go seek him, lead him to Menalcas' grave;
Forbid his eyes with flowing grief to rain,
Like him Menalcas wept, but wept in vain :
Bid him his heart-consuming groans give o'er:
Tell him, I heard such piercing groans before,
And heard unmov'd. Ö Lycidas, be wise,
Prevent thy fate.-Lo! there Menalcas lies.
1 SHEPHERD.

Now all the n lancholy rites are paid,
And o'er his grave the weeping marble laid;
Let's seek our charge; the flocks, dispersing wide,
Whiten with moving fleece the mountain's side.
Trust not, ye swains, the lightning of her eye,
Lest ye, like him, should love, despair, and die.
[Exeunt shepherds, &c. Parthenia remains in a me-
lancholy posture, looking on the grave of Menalcas.

DIONE.

Oh! where are honour, faith, and justice, flown? Perjur'd Evander !

LAURA.

-Death has laid him low. Touch not the mournful string that wakes thy woe.

DIONE.

That amorous swain, whom Lycidas you name,
(Whose faithless bosom feels another flame)
Is my once kind Evander-yes-'twas he.
He lives but lives, alas! no more for me.

LAURA.

Let not thy frantic words confess despair.

DIONE.

What, know I not his voice, his mien, his air?
Yes, I that treacherous voice with joy believ'd,
That voice, that mien, that air, my soul deceiv'd.
If my dear shepherd love the lawns, and glades,
With him I'll range the lawns, and seek the shades,
With him through solitary deserts rove.
But could he leave me for another love?
O base ingratitude!

LAURA.

-Suspend thy grief, And let my friendly counsel bring relief