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Here too are limpid streams, here oaks their


O'er mossy turf more soft than slumber spread; Expression, thought, and numbers, bring along, But, above all, let truth attend my song:

So shall my verse still please the men I love, Make Winnington commend, and my own Fox


On the EARL of ISLAY* altering his Gardens

at Whitton, near Hounslow-Heath.

OLD Islay, to shew a most elegant taste,

In improving his grounds, purloin'd from the


And order'd the gard'ner to open

his views, By cutting a couple of grand avenues. With secret delight, he saw the first view end, In his fav'rite prospect, a church that is ruined; But, what should the next to his Lordship exhibit, 'Twas the terrible sight of a rogue and a gibbet.

* He was Earl of Islay before he succeeded to the Dukedom. Archibald, Duke of Argyle, was slovenly in his person; mysterious, not to say with an air of guilt, in his deportment; slow, steady, where suppleness did not better answer his purpose; revengeful; and, if artful, at least not ingratiating: he loved power too well to hazard it by ostentation, and money so little, that he neither spared it to gain friends, or to serve them. Ob. 1761.-W.

A view so ungraceful, then taught him to muse on Full many a Campbell who'd died with his shoes


All amazed, and aghast, at this ominous scene, He order'd it straight, to be shut up again, With a clump of Scotch firs by way of a screen.




AS musing on his bed the Speecher lay,
Conning harangues for some important day;
Labouring to make the turns harmonious fall,
And to the taste attune 'em of Whitehall:
A sudden noise, career of fancy stops,
And a pale phiz within the curtain pops.

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Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough.

+ We owe the recovery of our affairs to Mr. Pitt; he has placed us at the head of Europe: the splendor of our country, the conquest of Canada, Louisbourg, Guadaloupe, Africa, and the East-nothing is too much for such services. I hope you will not think the Barony of Chatham, and £.3,000 a year for 3 lives to Lady Esther too much; she has this pittance.-W.

The phiz his opening eye no sooner meets,
Than quick he dives between the unsavory sheets:
Not proof against the visage of her grace,

Down sinks-till now, that unembarrass'd face.

The Spectre thus: "No sooner laid my head, "But all thy patriot sentiments are fled: "And I in my atoning project chous'd, "The latest and the best I e'er espous'd.

"To my trustees (since fate forbids to me), "Return, base villain! my retaining fee ;*


Bequeath'd to save that country thou would'st sell,

"Refund-not such a Judas roars in hell.

"That soften'd thief, by sense of guilt dismay'd,

“Threw back the price of him he had betray'd;

The Duchess of Marlborough left Mr. Pitt £.10,000 for the prejudices he had done to the Royal Family.-W.

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