In the good age of ghostly ignorance,
How did cathedrals rise, and zeal advance!
The merry monks said orisons at ease,
Large were their meals, and light their penances;
Pardons for sins were purchas'd with estates,
And none but rogues in rags dy'd reprobates.
But, now that pious pageantry's no more,
And stages thrive, as churches did before:
Your own magnificence you here survey,
Majestic columns stand, where dunghills lay,
And carrs triumphal rise from carts of hay.
Swains here are taught to hope, and nymphs to
fear,

And big Almanzor's fight mocks Blenheim's here.
Descending goddesses adorn our scenes,
And quit their bright abodes for gilt machines.
Should Jove, for this fair circle, leave his throne,
He'd meet a lightning fiercer than his own.
Though to the Sun his towering eagles rise,
They scarce could bear the lustre of these eyes.

A SOLILOQUY,

OUT OF ITALIAN.

COULD he whom my dissembled rigour grieves,
But know what torment to my soul it gives;
He'd find how fondly I return his flame,
And want myself the pity he would claim.
Immortal gods! why has your doom decreed
Two wounded hearts with equal pangs should
bleed?

Since that great law, which your tribunal guides,
Has join'd in love whom destiny divides ;
Repent, ye powers, the injuries you cause,
Or change our natures, or reform your laws.
Unhappy partner of my killing pain,
Think what I feel the moment you complain.
Each sigh you utter wounds my tenderest part,
So much my lips misrepresent my heart.
When from your eyes the falling drops distil,
My vital blood in every tear you spill:
And all those mournful agonies I hear,
Are but the echoes of my own despair.

choose,

Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse:
We give to merit, and to wealth we sell;

He sighs with most success that settles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix;
'Tis best repenting in a coach and six.
Blame not our conduct, since we but pursue
Those lively lessons we have learn'd from you:
Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms,
But wicked wealth usurps the power of charms.
What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate,
To swell in show, and be a wretch in state!
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow;
E'en churches are no sanctuaries now;
There golden idols all your vows receive;
She is no goddess who has nought to give.
Oh may once more the happy age appear,
When words were artless, and the thoughts sincere;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts less coveted than groves and springs.
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains,
And constancy feel transport in its chains;
Sighs with success their own soft anguish tell,
And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal:
Virtue again to its bright station climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time:
The fair shall listen to desert alone,

And every Lucia find a Cato's son.

AN IMITATION OF A FRENCH AUTHOR.

CAN you count the silver lights

That deck the skies, and cheer the nights;
Or the leaves that strow the vales,
When groves are stript by winter-gales;
Or the drops that in the morn

Hang with transparent pearl the thorn;
Or bridegroom's joys or miser's cares,
Or gamester's oaths, or hermit's prayers;
Or envy's pangs, or love's alarms,

Or Marlborough's acts, or -n's charms?

ANACREONTIC EPISTLE TO MR. GAY,

ON HIS POEMS.

WHEN Fame did o'er the spacious plain The lays she once had learn'd repeat; All listen'd to the tuneful strain,

And wonder'd who could sing so sweet. 'Twas thus. The Graces held the lyre,

Th' harmonious frame the Muses strung, The Loves and Smiles compos'd the choir, And Gay transcrib'd what Phoebus sung.

TO THE MERRY POETASTER
AT SADLERS-HALL IN CHEAPSIDE.

UNWIELDY pedant, let thy awkward Muse
With censures praise, with flatteries abuse.
To lash, and not be felt, in thee's an art;
Thou ne'er mad'st any, but thy school-boys, smart.
Then be advis'd, and scribble not again;
Thou'rt fashion'd for a flail, and not a pen.
If B-l's immortal wit thou would'st decry,
Pretend 'tis be that writ thy poetry.
Thy feeble satire ne'er can do him wrong;
Thy poems and thy patients live not long.

THE EARL OF GODOLPHIN TO DR. GARTH, UPON

THE LOSS OF MISS DINGLE: IN RETURN TO THE DOCTOR'S CONSOLATORY VERSES TO HIM, UPON THE LOSS OF HIS ROD1

THOU, who the pangs of my embitter'd rage
Could'st, with thy never-dying verse, assuage:
Immortal verse, secure to live as long

As that curs'd prose that did condemn thy song:
Thou, happy bard, whose double-gifted pen,
Alike can cure an aching corn, or spleen;
Whose lucky hand administers repose
As well to breaking heart, as broken nose;
Accept this tribute: think it all I had,
In recompense of thine, when I was sad.
What though it comes from an unpractis'd

Muse,

Bad at the best, grown worse by long disuse;
In silence lost, since once I did complain
Of Wiv-l's cold neglect in humble strain;
When check'd by slavish conscience, she deny'd
To throw aside the niece, and act the bride:
Yet sure I may be thought among the throng,
If not to sing, to whistle out a song:
Then take the kind remembrance of my verse,
While Dingle's loss with sorrow I rehearse.

Dingle is lost, the hollow caves resound
Dingle is lost, and multiply the sound;

See above, p. 449.

Till Echo, chanting it by just degree, Shortens to ding, then softens it to D.

Dingle is lost; where's now the parent's care, The boasted force of piety and prayer? No more shall she within thy spacious hall Lead up the dance, and animate the ball; Deserted thus, no more shalt thou engage Under the roof to Whartonize the age.

Train'd by thy care, by thy example led, Early she learnt to scorn the nuptial bed; In vain by thy advice enlarg'd her mind, And vow'd, like thee, to multiply her kind: For Dingle thou didst bless the nether skies; In hopes a mingled race might once arise, To sooth thy hoary age, and close thy dying eyes. Learn, ye indulging parents, learn from hence Think not compliance e'er will influence. The fifth command alone you did enjoin, And frankly gave her up the other nine: Yet she, though that, and that alone, was press'd, Regardless of your will, the fifth transgress'd.

But oh! my friend, consider, though she's gone She left no coffers empty but her own; Her mind, that did direct the great machine, Mov'd, like the universe, by springs unseen; And, though from thy instructions she retreats, Her globe of light grows larger as she sets: For nought could brighter make her lustre shine Than to withdraw, and single it from thine. Then think of this; and pardon, when you see Those virtues, you so late admir'd in me.