941

W722
V.3

GIFT OF

Pafener J. U. Thompson Bufesce

T. C. HANSARD, PRINTER, Peterboro'-court, Fleet-street, London.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

BENEVOLENCE an Epistle—“ Kind to my frailties

still Eumenes hear"

TO VOL. III.

The Wife and Nurse, a Ballad-" Vice once with Vir-

tue did engage"

...

Plain Thoughts, a Ballad-" Attend ye brave Bri-

tons"

Place Book for the year 1745-" Since with the new

year a new change has begun"

Lessons for the day, 1742-" Now it came to pass in

the 15th year"

+

Old England's Te Deum-" We complain of thee O

King"

The Merry Campaign-" God prosper long our noble

peers"

Labour in vain-"Ye patriots who twenty long

years"

......

The expiring Swan" When Phoebus coursing to the

West"......

Page

886718

1

18

23

28

40

43

50

54.

A Letter to the editor of the Old Woman's Magazine 57

A Letter from Sir C. H. Williams, to the Right Hon.

H. Fox

61

A Letter from the same to the Rev. Mr. Birt

A Letter from the same to the Right Hon. Henry

Fox....

.....

Ditto...... .Ditto........Ditto.......

A Letter from Sir C. H. Williams to the Rev. Mr.

Birt

Ditto..

.ditto to the same..

Ditto........ditto to the same...

Ditto......

ditto to the same........

To Chloe, a Persuasive to love-" Since Nature ne'er acted in vain "

The Fair Moralist-" As late by Thames's verdant side"

Le Pater-noster de Madame de Pompadour-“Grand
Dieu je confesse mes crimes"

Page 73

Verses, written by Sir C. H. Williams, on seeing a
Man with a heavy Load on his Back and an Oak-
Leaf in his Hat on the 29th of May.......

77

82

85

91

96

102

110

On Pope's having just published his Dunciad-" At length Pope conquers: Hervey, Wortley yield".... 112 Verses addressed to the Countess of Essex-" Fanny beware of flattery"

111

113

118

124

An Account of the Kings and Government of Poland in Letters to the Right hon. Henry Fox .. i to the end

ON BENEVOLENCE:

AN

EPISTLE TO EUMENES.

KIND to my frailties still, Eumenes, hear;
Once more I try the patience of your ear.
Not oft I sing; the happier for the town,
So stunn'd already they're quite stupid grown
With monthly, daily-charming things I own.
Happy for them, I seldom court the Nine;
Another art, a serious art, is mine.
Of nauseous verses offer'd once a week,
You cannot say I did it, if you're sick.
'Twas ne'er my pride to shine by flashy fits
Amongst the Daily Advertiser wits.
Content if some few friends indulge my name,
So slightly am I stung with Love of Fame,

I would not scrawl one hundred idle lines-
Not for the praise of all the magazines.

Yet once a moon, perhaps, I steal a night; And, if our Sire Apollo pleases, write. You smile; but all the train the Muse that follow,

Christians and dunces, still we quote Apollo. Unhappy still our Poets will rehearse

To Goths, that stare astonish'd at their verse;
To the rank tribes submit their virgin lays:
So gross, so bestial, is the lust of praise!

I to sound judges from the mob appeal, And write to those who most my subject feel. Eumenes, these dry moral lines I trust With you, whom nought that's moral can disgust. With you I venture, in plain home-spun sense, What I imagine of Benevolence.

Of all the monsters of the human kind, What strikes you most is the low selfish mind.