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For if who is not with his divident

Names that mortals so affright,
Amply content,

As turns the brightest day to night,
Within that accepta:ion fall,

And spoils of living the delight,
Most would be poor, and peradventure all.

With which so soon as life is tasted, This would the wretched with the rich confound:

Lest we should too happy be, But I not call him poor does not abound,

Even in our infancy, But him, who, snar'ù in bonds, and endless strife, Our joys are quash’d, our hopes are blasted; The comforts wants more than supports of life;

For the first thing that we hear, Him, whose whole age is measur'd out by fears,

(Us’d to still us when we cry)
And though he has wherewith to eat,

The nurse to keep the child in fear,
His bread does yet

Discreetly tells it, it must die,
Taste of a Miction, and his cares

Be put into a bole, eaten with worms;
His purest wine mix and allay with tears.

Presenting death in thousand ugly forms, 'Tis in this sense that I am poor,

Which tender minds so entertain,
And I'm afraid shall be so still,

As ever after to retain,
Obstrep'rous creditors besiege my door,

By which means we are cowards bred,
And my whole house clamorous echoes fill;

Nurs'd with unnecessary dread,
From these there can be no retirement free,

And ever dream of dying, 'till we're dead.
From room to room they hunt and follow me; Death! thou child's bug-bear, thou fools' terrour,
They will not let me eat, nor sleep, nor pray,

Gbastly set forth the weak to awe;
But persecute me night and day,

Begot by fear, increas'd by errour,
Torment my body and my mind;

Whom none but a sick fancy ever saw;
Nay, if I take my heels, and fly,

Thou who art ouly fear'd
They follow me with open cry:

By the illiterate and tim'rous herd,
At home no rest, abroad no refuge can I find.

But by the wise
Thou worst of ills! what have I done,

Esteem'd the greatest of felicities :
That Heav'n should punish me with thee?

Why, sithence by an universal law,
From insolence, fraud, and oppression,

Entail'd upon mankind thou art,
I ever have been innocent and free.

Should any dread, or seek t'avoid thy dart,
Thou wert intended (poverty)

When of the two, fear is the greatest smart?
A scourge for pride and avarice,

O senseless man, who vainly flies
I ne'er was tainted yet with cither vice;

What Heaven has ordaip'd to be
I never in prosperity,

The remedy
Nor in the height of all my happiness,

Of all thy mortal pains and miseries.
Scorn'd, or noglected any in distress,
My hand, my heart, my door

Sorrow, want, sickness, injury, mischance,
Were ever open'd to the poor ;

The happi'st man's certain inheritance,

With all the various ills,
And I to others in their need have granted,

Which the wide world with mourning ulls,
Ere they could ask, the thing they wanted;
Whereas I now, although I humily crave it,

Or by corruption, or disaster bred,

Are for the living all, not for the dead. Do only beg for peace, and cannot have it.

When life's sun sets, death is a bed Give me but that, ye bloody persecutors,

With sable curtains spread,
(Who formerly have been my suitors)

Where we lie down
And I'll surrender all the rest

To rest the weary liv.bs, and careful head,
For which you so contest.

And to the good, a bed of down. For Heav'n's sake, let me but be quiet,

There, there no frightful tintamarre
I'll not repine at clothes nor diet;

Of tumult in the many-headed beast,
Any habit ne'er so mean,

Nor all the loud artillery of war,
Let it be but whole and clean,

Can fright us from that sweet, that happy rest,
Such as nakedness will hide,

Wherewith the still and silent grave is blest; Will amply satisfy my pride;

Nor all the rattle, that above they keep, [sleep.
And as for meat

Break our repose, or rouse us from that everlasting
Jusks and acorns I will eat,
And for better never wish;

The grave is privileg'd from noise and care,
But when you will me better treat,

From tyranny, and wild oppression,
A turnip is a princely dish :

Violence has so little power there,
Since then I thus far am subdu'd,

Ev'n worst oppressors let the dead alone :
And so humbly do submit,

We're there secure from princes' frowns,
Faith, be no more so monstrous rude,

The insolences of the great,
But some repose at least permit;

From the rude hands of barb'rous clowns,
Sleep is to life and human nature due,

And policies of those that speat, And that, alas, is all for which I humbly sue.

The simple to betray, and cheat:

Or if some one with sacrilegious hand
DEATH.

Would persecute us after death,

His want of power shall bis will withstand,
At a melancholic season,

And he shall only lose his breath ;
As alone I musing sat,

For all that he by that shall gain
I fell, I know not how, to reason

Will be dishonour for his pain,
With myself of man's estate,

And all the clutter he can keep
How subject unto death and fate :

Will only serve to rock us while we soundly sleep.

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PINDARIC ODE.

The dead no more converse with tears,
With idle jealousies and fears;

No danger makes the dead man start,
No idle love torments his heart,

No loss of substance, parents, children, friends,
Either his peace, or sleep offends;
Nought can provoke his anger or despite,
He out of combat is, and injury,
'Tis he of whom philosophers so write;

And who would be a Stoic let him die,
For whilst we living are, what man is he,
Who the world's wrongs does either feel, or see,
That possibly from passion can be free!
But must put on
A noble indignation
Warranted both by virtue and religion.
Then let me die, and no more subject be
Unto the tyrannizing pow'rs,

To which this short mortality of ours,
Is either preordain'd by destiny,
Or bound by natural infirmity.

We nothing, whilst we here remain,
But sorrow, and repentance gain,
Nay, ev'n our very joys are pain;
Or, being past,

To woe and torment turn at last:
Nor is there yet any so sacred place,

Where we can sanctuary find,

No man's a friend to sorrow and disgrace;

But flying one, we other mischiefs meet;
Or if we kinder entertainment fiud,
We bear the seeds of sorrow in the mind,

And keep our frailty, when we shift our feet.
Whilst we are men we still our passions have,
And he that is most free, is his own slave,
There is no refuge but the friendly grave.

ON THE DEATH OF THE MOST NOBLE THOMAS EARL OF OSSORY.

CARMEN IRREGULARE.

ENOUGH! enough! I'll hear no more, And would to Heav'n I had been deaf before That fatal sound had struck my ear: Harsh rumour has not left so sad a note In her hoarse trumpet's brazen throat To move compassion, and inforce a tear. Methinks all nature should relent and droop,

The centre shrink, and heaven stoop,
The day be turn'd to mourning night,
The twinkling stars weep out their light,
And all things out of their distinction run
Into their primitive confusion,

A chaos with cold darkness overspread,
Since the illustrious Ossory is dead.

When Death that fatal arrow drew,
Ten thousand hearts he pierced through,
Though one alone he outright slew;
Never since sin gave him his killing trade,
He, at one shot, so great a slaughter made;
He needs no more at those let fly,
They of that wound alone will die,
And who can now expect to live, when he
Thus fell unprivileg'd we see !

He met death in his greatest triumph, war,
And always thence came off a conqueror,

Through rattling shot, and pikes the slave he

sought

Knock'd at each cuirass for him, as he fought,
Beat him at sea, and baffled him on shore,
War's utmost fury he outbrav'd before:
But yet, it seems, a fever could do more.

The English infantry are orphans now,
Pale sorrow hangs on every soldier's brow:
Who now in honour's path shall lead you on,
Since your beloved general is gone ?
Furl up your ensigns, case the warlike drum,
Pay your last honours to his tomb;
Hang down your manly heads in sign of woe;
That now is all that your poor loves can do ;
Unless by Winter's fire, or Summer's shade
To tell what a brave leader once you had:
Hang your now useless arms up in the hall,
There let them rust upon the sweating wall;
Go, till the fields, and, with inglorious sweat,
An honest, but a painful living get:
Your old neglected callings now renew,
And bid to glorious war a long adieu.

The Dutch may now have fishing free,

And, whilst the consternation lasts,
Like the proud rulers of the sea,

Show the full stature of their masts;
Our English Neptune, deaf to all alarms,
Now soundly sleeps in Death's cold arms,
And on his ebon altar has laid down
His awful trident, and his naval crown.

No more shall the tall frigate dance
For joy she carries this victorious lord,

Who to the capstain chain'd Mischance,
Commanding on her lofty board.
The sea itself, that is all tears,
Would weep her soundless channel dry,
Had she unhappily but ears,

To hear that Ossory could die.

Ah, cruel fate, thou never struck'st a blow,
By all mankind regretted so;

Nor can 't be said who should lament him most,
No country such a patriot e'er could boast,
And never monarch such a subject lost.

And yet we knew that he must one day die,
That should our grief assuage;

By sword, or shot, or by infirmity;

Or, if these fail'd, by age. But be, alas! too soon gave place To the successors of his noble race: We wish'd, and coveted to have him long,

He was not old enough to die so soon, And they to finish what he had begun, As much too young: But time, that had no hand in his mischance, Is fitter to mature, and to advance Their early hopes to the inheritance Of titles, honours, riches, and command, Their glorious grandsire's merits have obtain'd, And which shines brighter than a ducal crown, Of their illustrious family's renown. Oh, may there never fail of that brave race, A man as great, as the great Ossory was, To serve his prince, and as successful prove In the same valour, loyalty, and love; Whilst his own virtues swell the cheeks of fame, And from his consecrated urn doth flame A glorious pyramid to Botcler's name.

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Now that the day's short and forlorn,
Dull melancholy Capricorn

To chimney-corners men translate,
Drown we our sorrows in the glass,
And let the thoughts of warfare pass,

The clergy, and the third estate.
Menard, I know what thou hast writ,
That sprightly issue of thy wit

Will live whilst there are men to read:

But, what if they recorded be

In memory's temple, boots it thee,

When thou art gnawn by worms, and dead? Henceforth those fruitless studies spare, Let's rather drink until we stare

Of this immortal juice of ours, Which does in excellence precede The beverage which Ganimede

Into th' immortals' goblet pours. The juice that sparkles in this glass Makes tedious years like days to pass,

Yet makes us younger still become, By this from lab'ring thoughts are chas'd The sorrow of those ills are past,

And terrour of the ills to come.

Let us drink brimmers then, time's fleet,
And steals away with winged fect,

Haling us with him to our urn,

In vain we sue to it to stay,

For years like rivers pass away,

And never, never do return.

When the spring comes attir'd in green,
The winter flies and is not seen :

New tides do still supply the main :
But when our frolic youth's once gone,
And age has ta'en possession,

Time ne'er restores us that again.

Death's laws are universal, and

In princes' palaces command,

As well as in the poorest hut,
We're to the Parcæ subject all,
The threads of clowns and monarchs shall,
Be both by the same scissors cut.
Their rigours, which all this deface,
Will ravish in a little space

Whatever we most lasting make,
And soon will lead us out to drink,
Beyond the pitchy river's brink,

The waters of oblivion's lake.

EPISTLE TO SIR CLIFFORD CLIFTON,

THEN SITTING IN PARLIAMENT.

WHEN from thy kind hand, my dearest, dear brother,
Whom I love as th'adst been the son of my mother,
Nay, better to tell you the truth of the story,
Had you into the world but two minutes before the ;
I receiv'd thy kind letter, good Lord! how it eas'd me
Of the villainous spleen, that for six days had seiz'd

me:

I start from my couch, where I lay dull and muddy,
Of my servants inquiring the way to my study.
For, in truth, of late days I so little do mind it,
Should one turn me twice about I never should
find it:

But by help of direction, I soon did arrive at
The place where I us'd to sit fooling in private.

So soon as got thither, I straight fell to calling, Some call it invoking, but mine was plain bawling: I call'd for my Muse, but no answer she made me, Nor could I conceive why the slut should evade

me.

I knew I there left her, and lock'd her so safe in,
There could be no likelihood of her escaping:
Besides had she scap'd, I was sure to retrieve her,
She being so ugly that none would receive her,
I then fell to searching, since I could not hear her,
I sought all the shelves, but never the nearer:
I tumbled my papers, and rifled each packet,
Threw my books all on heaps, and kept such a
racket,

Disordering all things, which before had their places
Distinct by themselves in several classes,

That who'd seen the confusion, and look'd on the

ware,

Would have thought he had been at Babylon fair. At last, when for lost I had wholly resign'd her, Where canst thou imagine, dear knight, I should

find her?

Faith, in an old drawer, I late had not been in, 'Twixt a coarse pair of sheets of the housewife's own

spinning,

A sonnet instead of a coif her head wrapping,

I happily took her small ladyship napping.

"Why, how now, minx," quoth I, "what's the matter I pray,

That you are so hard to be spoke with to day?
Fie, fie on this idleness, get up and rouse you:
For I have at present occasion to use you:
Our noble Mecænas, sir Clifford of Cud-con,
Has sent here a letter, a kind and a good one,
Which must be suddenly answer'd, and finely,
Or the knight will take it exceeding unkindly."
To which having some time sat musing and mute,
She answer'd she'd broke all the strings of her lute;
And had got such a rheum with lying alone,
That her voice was utterly broken and gone:
Besides this, she had heard, that of late I had made
A friendship with one that had since been her

maid;

One Prose, a slatternly ill-favour'd toad,
As common as hackney, and beaten as road,
With whom I sat up sometimes whole nights together,
Whilst she was exposed to the wind and weather.
Wherefore, since that I did so slight and abuse her,
She likewise now hop'd I would please to excuse her.
At this sudden reply I was basely confounded,
I star'd like a Quaker, and groan'd like a Round-
head.

And in such a case, what the fiend could one do?
My conscience convinc'd her reproaches were true;
To swagger I durst not, I else could have beat her,
But what if I had, I'd been never the better,
To quarrel her then had been quite out of season,
And ranting would ne'er have reduc'd her to reason ;
I therefore was fain to dissemble repentance,

I disclaim'd and forswore my late new acquaintance.
But the jade would not buckle, she pish'd and she

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I caught her, and offered her money, a little,
At which she cry'd that were to plunder the spittle:
1 then, to allure her, propos'd to her fame,
Which she so much despised, she pish'd at the

name:

And told me in answer, that she could not glory at
The sail-bearing title of Muse to a laureat,
Much less to a rhymer, did nought but disgust one,
And pretended to nothing but pitiful fustian.
But oh, at that word, how I rated and call'd her,
And had my fist up, with intent to have maul'd her:
At which, the poor slut, half afraid of the matter,
Changing her note, 'gan to wheedle and flatter;
Protesting she honour'd me, Jove knew her heart,
Above all the peers o' th' poetical art:
But that of late time, and without provocation,
I had been extremely unjust to her passion.
Me thought this sounded, I then laid before her,
How long I had serv'd her, how much did adore
her;

How much she herself stood oblig'd to the knight,
For his kindness and favour, to whom we should

write;

And thereupon called, to make her amends,
For a pipe and a bottle, and so we were friends.
Being thus made friends, we fell to debating
What kind of verse we should congratulate in:
I said 't must be doggrel, which when I had said,
Maliciously smiling, she nodded her head,
Saying doggrel might pass to a friend would not
And do well enough for a Derbyshire poet. [show it,
Yet mere simple doggrel, she said, would not do't,
It needs must be galloping doggrel to boot, [feet,
For amblers and trotters, tho' they'd thousands of
Could never however be made to be fleet;
But would make so damnable slow a progression,
They'd not reach up to Westminster till the next
session.

Thus then unto thee, my dear brother, and sweeting,
In Canterbury verse I send health and kind greeting,
Wishing thee honour, but if thou be'st cloy'd wi't,
Above what thy ancestry ever enjoy'd yet;
May'st thou sit where now seated, without fear of
blushing,

Till thy little fat buttock e'en grow to the cushion.
Give his majesty money, no matter who pays it,
For we never can want it so long as he has it;
But, wer't wisdom to trust saucy counsel in letters,
I'd advise thee beware falling out with thy betters;
I have heard of two dogs once that fought for a bone,
But the proverb's so greasy I'll let it alone;
A word is enough to the wise; then resent it,
A rash act than mended is sooner repented:
And, as for the thing call'd a traitor, if any
Be prov'd to be such, as I doubt there's too many;
Let him e'en be hang'd up, and never be pray'd for,
What a pox were blocks, gibbets, and gallowses
[choose,

made for?

But I grow monstrous weary, and how should I This galloping rhyme has quite jaded my Muse: And I swear, if thou look'st for more posting of hers, Little knight, thou must needs lend her one of thy

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His looks, than your brown, a little thought brighter,

[whiter;

Which grey bairs make every year whiter and
His visage, which all the rest mainly disgraces,
Is warp'd, or by age, or cutting of faces;
So that, whether 't were made so, or whether 't
were marr'd,

In good sooth, he's a very unpromising bard:
His legs, which creep out of two old-fashion'd knap-
sacks,
[sticks;

Are neither two mill-posts, nor yet are they trapThey bear him, when sober, bestir 'em and spare not, And who the devil can stand when they are not?

Thus much for his person, now for his condition, That's sick enough full to require a physician : He always wants money, which makes him want

ease,

And he's always besieg'd, tho' himself of the peace,
By an army of duns, who batter with scandals,
And are foemen more fierce than the Goths or the

Vandals;

But when he does sally, as sometimes he does,
Then hey for Bess Juckson, and a fig for his foes:
He's good fellow enough to do every one right,
And never was first that ask'd, what time of night:
His delight is to toss the can merrily round,
And loves to be wet, but hates to be drown'd:
He fain would be just, but sometimes he cannot,
Which gives him the trouble that other men ha' not.
He honours his friend, but he wants means to show
it,

[it,

And loves to be rhyming, but is the worst poet.
Yet among all these vices, to give him his due,
He has the virtue to be a true lover of you.
But how much he loves you, he says you may guess
Since nor prose, nor yet metre, he swears can ex-
press it.

STANZES DE MONSIEUR BERTAUD. WHILST wishing, Heaven, in his ire, Would punish with some judgement dire, This heart to love so obstinate; To say I love her is to lie, Though I do love t' extremity,

Since thus to love her is to hate.
But since from this my hatred springs,
That she neglects my sufferings,

And is unto my love ingrate;
My hatred is so full of flame,
Since from affection first it came,

That 'tis to love her, thus to hate.

I wish that milder love, or death,
That ends our miseries with our breath,
Would my afflictions terminate,
For to my soul depriv'd of peace,
It is a torment worse than these,

Thus wretchedly to love and hate.
Let love be gentle or severe,
It is in vain to hope or fear

His grace, or rage in this estate;
Being I, from my fair one's spirit,
Nor mutual love, nor hatred merit,

Thus senselessly to love and hate.
Or, if by my example here,
It just and equal do appear,

Slic love and loath who is my fate ;
Grant me, ye powers, in this case,
Buth for my punishment and grace,

That as I do, she love and hate.

Which makes them upwards still to fly ;

Till froin the utmost height of all, Painting in their endeavour, down they fall, And louer, than at first they were, at last do

lie.

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I then would know where lies the happiness
CONTENTMEN..

Of being great,

For which we blindly so much strive and press, PINDARIC ODE.

Fawn, bribe, dissemble, toil, and sweat; Trou precious treasure the peaceful mind, Whilst the mind, tortur'd in the doubtful quest, Thou jewel of inestimable price,

Is so solicitous to be at rest; Thou bravest soul's terrestrial paradise, Nay, when that grcatness is obtain'd, is yet Dearest contentment, thou best happiness

More anxious how to keep, than 't was to get That man on Earth can know,

Cnto that glorious height of tickle place, Thou greatest gift Hear'n can on man bestov, And most, when unto honour rais'd, suspects disAnd greater than man's language can express;

grace. Where highest epithets would fall so low,

Were men contented, they'd sit still, As only in our dearth of words to show

Embrace, and hug their present state, A part of thy perfection ; a poor part

Without contriving good or ill, Of what to us, what in thyseit thou art)

and have no conflicts with the will,
What sin bas banish'd thee the world,

That still is prompting them to lore, to hate,
And in thy stead despairing sorrow hurld
Into the breasts of human kind;

Fear, envy, anger, and I can't tell what,

All which, and more, do in the mind make war, Ah, whitherartthou tled! who can this treasure find!

And all with contentation inconsistent are. No more on Earth now to be found,

Aud he who says he is content, Thou art become a hollow sound,

But hides ill-nature from mens' sight; The empty name of something that of old

Nor can he long conceal it there, Naukiud was happy in, but now,

Something will rent, Like a vain dream, or tale that's told,

For all his cunning and his care, Art vanish'd hence, we know not how.

That will disclose the hypocrite. Oh, fatal loss, for which we are

A man may be contented for an hour In our own thoughts at endless war,

Or two, or thrce; perhaps a night; And each one by himself is made a sufferer!

But then his pleasure wanting power, Yet 't were worth seeking, if a man knew where, His taste goes with his appetite.

Or could but guess of whom t'inquire : Frailty the peace of human life confounds; But 'tis not to be found on Earıh, I fear, Flesh does not know, reason obeys no bounds. And who can best direct will prove a liar,

But 'tis ourselves that give this frailty sway, Or he himself the first deceiv'd,

By our own promptness to obey
By none, but who'd be cheated too, to be believ'd.

Our lust, pride, envy, avarice;
Show me that man on Earth, that does profess By being so confederate with vice,
To have the greatest share of happiness,

As to permit it lo controul
And let him if he can,

The rational immortal soul,
Forbear to show the discontented man:

Whichi, whilst by these subjected and opprest, A few hours' observation will declare,

Cannot enjoy itself, nor be at rest;
He is the same that others are.

But, or transorted is with ire,
Picbes will cure a man of being poor,

Puff'd up with vain and empty pride ; Biit oft creates a thirst of having more, {store. Or languishes with base desire, And inakes the iniser starve, and pine amidst liis

Or pines with th' envy it would hide.

And (the grave Stoic let me not displease)
Or if a plentiful estate,

All men that we converse with here,
In a good mind, good thoughts create,

Have some, or all of their disturbances,
A generous soul, and free,

And rarely settled are, and clear.
Will mourn at least, though uot repine,

If ever any mortal then could boast
To want an overflowing mine

So great a treasure, with that man 'tis lost; Still to supply a constant charity;

And no one should, because uone truly can, Which still is discontent, whate'er the motive be.

Though sometimes pleas'd, say, he's a contented
Th' ambitious, who to place aspire,

When rais'd to that they did pretend,
Are restless still, would still be higher;
For that's a passion has no end.

EPIGRAM.
'Tis the mind's wolf, a strange disease,
That ev'n satiety can't appcase,

Fie, Delia, talk no more of love,
An appetite of such a kind,

It galls me to the heart;
As does by feeding still increase,

You threescore are, I doubt above,
And is to eat, the more it eats, inclin'd.

For all your plaist'ring art.
As the ambitious mount the sky,

And therefore spare your pains you may;
New prospects still allure the eye,

For though you press me night and day,

man.

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