Was all I thought at first to write ;
But things fince then are alter'd quite ;
Fancies flow in, and Mufe flies high:
So God knows when my clack will lie:
I muft, Sir, prattle on, as afore,
And beg your pardon yet this half-hour.
So at pure barn of loud Non-con,
Where with my granam I have gone,
When Lobb had fifted all his text,
And I well hop'd the pudding next;
"Now to apply," has plagu'd me more,
Than all his villain cant before.

For your religion, first, of her
Your friends do favoury things aver:
They fay, the's honeft, as your claret,
Not four'd with cant, nor ftumm'd with merit;
Your chamber is the fole retreat

Of chaplains every Sunday night:
Of grace, no doubt, a certain fign,
When lay-man herds with man divine;
For if their fame be justly great,
Who would no popifh nuncio treat;
That his is greater, we must grant,
Who will treat nuncio's proteftant.
One fingle pofitive weighs more,
You know, than negatives a score.
In politicks, I hear, you're ftanch,
Directly bent against the French;
Deny to have your free-born toe
Dragoon'd into a wooden fhoe:

Are in no plots; but fairly drive at
The public welfare, in your private ;
And will for England's glory try
Turks, Jews, and Jefuits, to defy,
And keep your places till you die.

For me, whom wandering fortune threw
From what I lov'd, the town and you:
Let me just tell you how my time is
Paft in a country life.-Imprimis,
As foon as Phoebus' rays infpect us,
Firft, Sir, I read, and then I breakfast ;
So on, till forefaid god does fet,
I fometimes ftudy, fometimes eat.
Thus, of your heroes and brave boys,
With whom old Homer makes fuch noise,
The greatest actions I can find,

Are, that they did their work, and din'd.
The books, of which I 'm chiefly fond,

Are fuch as you have whilom conn'd ;
That treat of China's civil law,
And fubjects' right in Golconda;.
Of highway-elephants at Ceylan,

That rob in clans, like men o' th' Highlands
Of apes that ftorm, or keep a town,

As well almoft as Count Lauzun ;
Of unicorns and alligators,

Elks, mermaids, mummies, witches, fatyrs,
And twenty other stranger matters;

}

}

Which, though they 're things I've no concern-in, Make all our grooms admire my learning.

Criticks

Criticks I read on other men,

And hypers upon them again;

From whose remarks I give opinion

On twenty books, yet ne'er look in one.
Then all your wits that fleer and fham,
Down from Don Quixote to Tom Tram;
From whom I jefts and puns purloin,
And flily put them off for mine :
Fond to be thought a country wit :
The reft-when fate and you think fit.
Sometimes I climb my mare, and kick her
To bottled ale, and neighbouring vicar;
Sometimes at Stamford take a quart,
Squire Shephard's health-With all my heart.
Thus, without much delight or grief,

I fool away an idle life:

Till Shadwell from the town retires

(Choak'd up with fame and fea-coal fires),
To bless the wood with peaceful lyrick:
Then hey for praise and panegyrick;
Juftice reftor'd, and nations freed,

And wreaths Found William's glorious head.

To the COUNTESS of DORSET. Written in her Milton. By Mr. Bradbury.

SEE

EE here how bright the first-born virgin shone, And how the first fond lover was undone. Such charming words, our beauteous mother spoke, As Milton wrote, and fuch as yours her look.

Yours

Yours, the beft copy of th' original face,
Whose beauty was to furnish all the race:
Such chains no author could efcape but he ;
There's no way to be safe, but not to fee.

To the Lady DURSLEY. On the fame Subject. HERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd,

And how by fin Eve's blafted charms decay'd;

Our common lofs unjustly you complain;
So fmall that part of it, which you sustain.
You ftill, fair mother, in your offspring trace

The stock of beauty deftin'd for the race :
Kind nature, forming them, the pattern took
From Heaven's first work, and Eve's original look.
You, happy faint, the ferpent's power controul:
Scarce any actual guilt defiles your foul:
And hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast,
Which gains a Heaven, for earthly Eden loft.

With virtue ftrong as yours had Eve been arm'd,
In vain the fruit had blufh'd, or ferpent charm'd;
Nor had our blifs by penitence been bought;
Nor had frail Adam fall'n, nor Milton wrote.

To my Lord BUCKHURST, very young,
playing with a CAT.

T

E amorous youth, whofe tender breast
Was by his darling cat poffeft,

Obtain'd of Venus his defire,

Howe'er irregular his fire:

Nature

Nature the power of love obey'd,

The cat became a blufhing maid;
And, on the happy change, the boy
Employ'd his wonder and his joy.

Take care, O beauteous child, take care,
Left thou prefer so rash a prayer :
Nor vainly hope, the queen of love
Will e'er thy favourite's charms improve.
O quickly from her fhrine retreat;
Or tremble for thy darling's fate.

The queen of love, who foon will fee
Her own Adonis live in thee,
Will lightly her firft lofs deplore;
Will eafily forgive the boar:

Her eyes with tears no more will flow;
With jealous rage her breast will glow :
And, on her tabby rival's face,

She deep will mark her new difgrace.

WH

HILE from our looks, fair nymph, you guess
The fecret paffions of our mind;

My heavy eyes, you fay, confefs,
A heart to love and grief inclin'd.

II.

There needs, alas ! but little art,

To have this fatal fecret found; With the fame ease you threw the dart, 'Tis certain you may fhew the wound.

III. How