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Coknown, unkeeded, long his offspring lay,
Prest by the load of life, the weary mind
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss,
“This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,” Says swelling Crispin, “ begg'd a cobbler's vote."
This night our wit,” the pert apprentice cries,
8POKEN BY MR. HULL.
This night presents a play, which publick rage,
To wit, reviving from its author's dust,
Performed at Covent garden theatre in 1777, for the benefit of Mrs. Kelly, widow of Hugh Kelly, esq. (the author of the play,) and her children.
Upon the first representation of this play, 1770, a party assembled to damn
it, and succeeded.
If want of skill, or want of care appear,
STERN winter now, by spring repressid,
Forbears the long-continued strife ;
Delights to catch the gales of life.
Soft pleasure with the laughing train,
And vegetation plants the plain.
Arthritick d tyranny consigns ;
Though rapture sings, and beauty shines.
Her wings imagination tries,
Where - 's humble turrets rise ;
Nor from the pleasing groves depart,
Where wisdom first inform'd my heart,
A guide—a father-and a friend,
d The author being ill of the gout.
From false caresses, causeless strife,
Wild hope, vain fear, alike remov'd, Here let me learn the use of life,
When best enjoy'd—when most improv'd. Teach me, thou venerable bower,
Cool meditation's quiet seat,
The silent grandeur of retreat.
Or raging factions rush to war,
I can't prevent, and will not share. But, lest I fall by subtler foes,
Bright wisdom, teach me Curio's art, The swelling passions to compose,
And quell the rebels of the heart.
O PH@bus! down the western sky,
Far hence diffuse thy burning ray, Thy light to distant worlds supply,
And wake them to the cares of day. Come, gentle eve, the friend of care,
Come, Cynthia, lovely queen of night! Refresh me with a cooling air,
And cheer me with a lambent light: Lay me, where o'er the verdant ground
Her living carpet nature spreads; Where the green bow'r, with roses crown'd,
In show'rs its fragrant foliage sheds ; Improve the peaceful hour with wine;
Let musick die along the grove; Around the bowl let myrtles twine,
And ev'ry strain be tun'd to love.
Come, Stella, queen of all my heart!
Come, born to fill its vast desires ! Thy looks perpetual joys impart,
Thy voice perpetual love inspires. Whilst, all my wish and thine complete,
By turns we languish and we burn, Let sighing gales our sighs repeat,
Our murmurs—murmuring brooks return. Let me, when nature calls to rest,
And blushing skies the morn foretell, Sink on the down of Stella's breast,
And bid the waking world farewell.
Alas! with swift and silent pace,
Impatient time rolls on the year; The seasons change, and nature's face
Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe. 'Twas spring, 'twas summer, all was gay,
Now autumn bends a cloudy brow; The flow'rs of spring are swept away,
And summer-fruits desert the bough. The verdant leaves, that play'd on high,
And wanton'd on the western breeze, Now, trod in dust, neglected lie,
As Boreas strips the bending trees. The fields, that way'd with golden grain,
As russet heaths, are wild and bare; Not moist with dew, but drench'd with rain,
Nor health, nor pleasure, wanders there. No more, while through the midnight shade,
Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray, Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,
As Progne pours the melting lay.