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A FRAGMENT OF ANCIENT POETRY.
By George Wethers. LORDLY gallants! tell me this,
(Though my safe content you weigh not, In your greatness what one bliss Have you gain'd that I enjoy not?
You have honour, you have wealth,
And at night no care I take.
This or that man's fall I fear not;
You are sad when others chafe,
Laugh and weep as pleaseth me.
Where your service is applied;
You oft flatter, soothe, and feign,
Though my fetters might be gold.
Highest honours are attain'd;
Where they favour, there they may
Till mine own wing carry me.
They are toys not worth my sorrow; Those that we to-day admire,
Prove the age's scorn to-morrow.
Take your honours; let me find
Though I vainly do not vaunt
Large demesnes to feed my pleasure,
You have lands lie here and there;
my wealth is every where;
Say you purchase with your pelf
Some respect where you importune;
Rich, or born of high degree,
boast that you may gain
She I love hath all delight,
Note of me was never took
For my woman-like perfections;
For my love, as many showers
Though of dainties you have store
To delight a choicer palate, Yet your taste is pleas'd no more Than is mine in
Though you lord it over me,
You in vain thereof have brav’d;
minds are slav'd.
When your faults I open lay,
You are mov'd and mad with vexing;
Therefore my despised power
you poorer be.
You are pleased more or less
No men well or ill report you,
That in which my pleasures be,
Be not proud, because you view
You by thousands are attended; For, alas! it is not you,
But your fortune that's befriended.
In these thoughts my
For those toys that make you gay,
I as braye shall be as you.
of his groom In all the scenes of vulgar life at home; At home to all the pugilistic train, Lord of the ring, and hero of the rein: But not at home when tradesmen would be paid, Or worth and genius supplicate his aid; And least at home, oh mean! and grovelling mind! In that high station which his birth assign'd. In those dull moments when ennui prevails, And beaux forget to call, and scandal fails, What dame of fashion e'er can condescend At home the solitary hours to spend? At home! oh monstrous! is there then no way To kill the languor of the irksome day? Call my barouche! I'll drive to lady Bloom: Our mutual watchword still is--Not at home: And Mrs. Shuttle, odious, rustic creature! Whose suppers we endure from mere good nature. Brisk at his post, and practis'd in reply, The powder'd footman tells the ready lie; Not so the simple lad just come to town, Scarce half a coxcomb, more than half a clown, With awkward shame he turns his head away, And blushing stammers—Not at home to-day.