If Verres gripes the poor, or Nænius write,
Call that the robber, this the parafite.
Ne'er aim to make an eagle of an owl;
Cinna's a statesman; Sydrophel, a tool.
Our cenfurers with want of thought difpenfe,
But tremble at the hideous fin of fenfe.
Who would not fuch hard fate as ours bemoan,-
Indicted for fome wit, and damn'd for none?
But if, to-day, fome scandal should appear,
Let thofe precife Tartuffs bind o'er Moliere.
Poet, and Papift too, they 'll furely maul,
There's no indulgences at Hicks's-hall.
Gold only can their pious fpite allay,
They call none criminals that can but pay:
The heedlefs fhrines with victims they invoke,
They take the fat, and give the gods the fmoke.
SPOKEN AT THE OPENING OF THE
QUEEN'S THEATRE IN THE HAY-MARKET.
UCH was our builder's art, that, foon as nam'd,
This fabrick, like the infant-world, was fram'd.
The architect must on dull order wait,
But 'tis the Poet only can create.
None elfe, at pleasure, can duration give:
When marble fails, the Mufes' fructures live.
The Cyprian fane is now no longer feen,
Though facred to the name of love's fair queen.
Ev'n Athens fcarce in pompous ruin stands,
Though finish'd by the learn'd Minerva's hands.
More fure presages from thefe walls we find,
By Beauty founded, and by Wit defign'd.
In the good age of ghoftly ignorance,
How did cathedrals rife, and zeal advance !
The merry monks faid orifons at ease,
Large were their meals, and light their penances;
Pardons for fins 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 furvey,
Majestic columns ftand, where dunghills lay,
And carrs triumphal rife from carts of hay.
Swains here are taught to hope, and nymphs to fear,
And big Almanzor's fight mocks Blenheim's here.
Defcending 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 fun his towering eagles rife,
They scarce could bear the luftre of these eyes.
TRAGEDY OF CATO.
WHAT odd fantaftic things we women do!
Who would not liften when young lovers woo? What! die a maid, yet have the choice of two! Ladies are often cruel to their coft:
To give you pain, themfelves they punish moft.
Vows of virginity fhould well be weigh'd';
'Too oft' they 're cancel'd, though in convents made. Would you revenge fuch rash refolves
Be fpiteful and believe the thing we say;
We hate you, when you 're easily faid nay.
How needlefs, if you knew us, were your fears!
Let Love have eyes, and Beauty will have ears.
Our hearts are form'd, as you yourselves would choofe,
Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse:
We give to merit, and to wealth we fell ;
He fighs with most success that settles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix;
'Tis best repenting in a coach and fix.
Blame not our conduct, fince we but pursue
Thofe lively leffons 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 fwell in fhow, and be a wretch in state!
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow;
Ev'n churches are no fanctuaries 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 artlefs, and the thoughts fincere;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts lefs coveted than groves and fprings.
Love then shall only mourn when Truth complains,
And conftancy feel transport in its chains ;
Sighs with fuccess their own soft anguish tell,
And eyes fhall utter what the lips conceal:
Virtue again to its bright station climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time :
The fair fhall liften to defert alone,
And every Lucia find a Cato's fon.
TRANSFORMATION OF SCYLLA.
Now Glaucus, with a lover's hafte, bounds o'er The fwelling waves, and feeks the Latian fhore.
Meffena, Rhegium, and the barren coast
Of flaming Ætna, to his fight are loft:
At length he gains the Tyrrhene feas, and views
The hills where baneful philtres Circe brews;
Monsters in various forms around her press;
As thus the God falutes the Sorceress :
O Circe, be indulgent to my grief,
And give a love-fick deity relief.
Too well the mighty power of plants I know,
To thofe my figure and new fate I owe
Against Meffena, on th' Aufonian coast,
I Scylla view'd, and from that hour was loft.
In tendereft founds I fued; but ftill the fair
Was deaf to vows, and pitilefs to prayer.
If numbers can avail, exert their power;
Or energy of plants, if plants have more.
|