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"These conquests your own hands have made, "Pursue these glorious ends;

"You've no affections to mislead,

"No party, and no friends.

from the pulpit was a kind of moral essays, clear from quotations of Scripture, but what they wanted in Gospel was made up by a tone of fanaticism: he had been thrust on the king by the Earl of Hardwicke, for a marriage Secker had contrived between the Chancellor's son, and the grand-daughter and heiress of the Duke of Kent, Lady Arabella Grey. He succeeded to the see of Canterbury, 1758. Ob. 1768.-W.

[See references to the following notes in the preceding page.] + Sherlock, Bishop of Salisbury, and afterwards of London. Sherlock, Dr. Thomas, Bishop of London, was at Eton with Sir Robert Walpole; when he and some other boys went to bathe in the Thames, they stood shivering, Sherlock plunged in over head; and this induced Pope in his Dunciad to call him the plunging Bishop; however, Sherlock was always at the head of his class: his learning was extensive; God had given him a great, and an understanding, mind, a quick comprehension, and a solid judgment. These advantages of nature he improved by much industry and application. Ob. 1760.

Dr. Blackbourn, Archbishop of York.

Blackbourn, the jolly old Archbishop of York, had all the manners of a man of quality, though he had been a Buccaneer, and was a clergyman; he retained nothing of his first profession, except the Seraglio. Hayter, Bishop

"I lov'd my country when on earth, "Her freedom strove to save;

"Those cares that waited on my life,

"Attend me in the grave.

"Since death all worldly views destroys,
"You may my words believe;
"Attend then to the last advice,

"That ever I shall give.

"Sometimes with Tories give a vote, "Sometimes with Whigs agree;

"So shall you live like me esteem'd, "And die bemoan'd like me."

of Norwich, preceptor to Prince George, was his natural son; he, one day talking with Queen Caroline about Sir Robert Walpole, said, "Madam, I am glad you like the king's new mistress, Lady Yarmouth; it shews you are a sensible woman, your Majesty having no objection for your husband to divert himself.-W. Ob. 1743, after enjoying the see of York 20 years.

An Epistle



Written in August 1745.

Nec magis expressi vultus per ænea signa
vatis opus mores animiq: virorum
HOR. Ep. 2, Lib. ii.

Quam per

RARE, and more rare, my verses still appear,
I scarce produce a poem in a year.

Yet blame not, Fox, or hear me e'er you blame;
My genius droops, my spirit's not the same.
My verse comes harder, and the little fire
I once possess'd, I daily feel expire;
Not as when urg'd by your desire I strung
My willing lyre, and bolder numbers sung;
Daring the patriot's treach'ry to rehearse,
Till statesmen trembled at th' impending verse.

To speak and charm in public, friend, is thine : The silent arts of poetry are mine:

And when some striking thought affects my mind, I rest not till to paper 'tis consign'd.

Then with a parent's fondness I behold

My child escap'l from memory's treach'rous hold;

And smooth'd in verse, and harmoniz'd in rhyme,
I dream 'tis plac'd beyond the reach of time.
The torrent bears, my genius points the way,
I feel the impulse, and with joy obey.
Yet Vanity did ne'er allure to Fame,

I had no fondness for an author's name;

My works, like bastards, dropt about the town,
No author claim'd, no bookseller would own.
Ambition had no beauty in my eyes;
Verses like mine would hardly make me rise,
For ev'ry statesman hates poetic blows,
Tho' heavy on the shoulders of their foes;
And doubtful where the Satire may point next,

They laugh, they fear, like, hate, are pleas'd and


'Twas your desire (perhaps your flattery too)—
My verse, my fame, if any, springs from you;
And here I pay my tribute where 'tis due.
Your smiles were all my vanity requir'd,
Your nod was all the fame that I desir'd;
All my ambition was, to gain your praise,
And all my pleasure, you alone to please.
Yet PRUDENCE will be whispering in my ear,
(A croaking voice that I detest and hear;
Whom anxious thoughts preceding still we find,
And plenty with a niggard horn behind.)
"Why will you write," she cries, "forsake the

Despise her gifts, her influence refuse; "To me in all thy life, for once attend, "Prudence to parts, would prove a useful friend. "I know your wants, and offer you my aid; "Which still you shun contemptuous and afraid;

"Pleas'd with the praise, some partial few may


"The hate and envy of the rest, you live:

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