Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,

To have a curious trick in store, His coffers overflow'd with gold ;

Which never was perform'd before. The land all round him was his own.

Thro' all the town this soon got air, With corn his crowded granaries groan.

And the whole house was like a fair; In short, so vast his charge and gain,

But soon his entry as he made, That to possess them was a pain :

Without a prompter, or parade, With happiness oppress'd he lies,

'Twas all expectance, all suspense, And much too prudent to be wise.

And silence gagg'd the audience. Near him there liv'il a beauteous maid,

He hid his head behind his wig, With all the charms of youth array'd;

And with such truth took off a pig, Good, amiable, sincere and free,

All swore'twas serious, and no joke, Her name was Generosity.

For doubtless underneath his cloak, 'Twas hers the largess to bestow

He had conceal'd some grunting elf, On rich and poor, on friend and foe.

Or, was a real hog himself. Her doors to all were open'd wide,

A search was made, no pig was found The pilgrim there might safe abide :

With thund'ring claps the seats resound, For th' hungry and the thirsty crew,

And pit, and box, and galleries roar, The bread she broke, the drink she dreir; With-O rare! bravo! and encore. There Sickness laid her acbing head,

Old Roger Grouse, a country clown, And there Distress cou'd find a bed.

Who yet knew something of the town, Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,

Beheld the mimic and his whim, Diffus'd she blessings round the land :

And on the morrow challeng'd him, Her gifts and glory lasted long,

Declaring to each beau and bunter, And numerous was th'accepting throng.

That he'd out-grunt th' egregious grunter. At length pale Penury seiz'd the dame,

The morrow came—the crowd was greater And Fortune fled, and Ruin came,

But prejudice and rank ill-nature, She found her riches at an end,

Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches, And that she had not made one friend.

Who came to hiss, and break the benches. . .
All curs'd her for not giving more,

The mimic took his usual station,
Nor thought on what she'd done before; And squeak'd with general approbation,
She wept, she rav'd, she tore her hair,

“ Again, encore ! encore !” they cryWhen lo ! to comfort her came Care.

'Twas quite the thing—twas very high : And cry'd, “ My dear, if you will join

Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket, Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;

A real pig beneath his jacketAll will be well—you shall have store,

Then forth be came-and with his nail And I be plagu'd with wealth no more.

He pinch'd the urchin by the tail. Tho' I restraiu your bounteous heart,

The tortur'd pig from out his throat, You still shall act the generous part.”

Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note. The bridal came-great was the feast,

All bellow'd out-twas very sad !
And good the pudding and the priest ;

Sure nerer stuff was half so bad !
The bride in nine moons brought him forth “ That like a pig!"_each cry'd in scoff,
A little maid of matchless worth:

“Pshaw! Nonsense! blockhead ! Off! Off! Off!» Her face was mix'd of care and glee,

The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse They christend her Economy ;

Was hiss'd, and catcall'd from the house. And styled her fair Discretion's queen,

“ Soft ye, a word before I go," The mistress of the golden mean.

Quoth honest Hodge—and stooping low Now Generosity confin'd,

Produc'd the pig, and thus aloud Perfectly easy in her mind;

Bespoke the stupid partial croud : Still loves to give, yet knows to spare;

“ Behold, and learn from this poor creature, Nor wishes to be free from Care.

How much you crities know of Nature."


Is every age, and each profession,
Men err the most by prepossession,
But when the thing is clearly shown,
And fairly stated, Fully known,
We soon applaud what we deride,
And penitence succeeds to pride.-
A certain baron on a day,
Having a mind to show away,
Invited all the wits and wags,
loot, Massey, Shutter, Yates and Skeggs,
And built a large commodious stage,
For the choice spirits of the age;
But above all, among the rest,
There came a genius who profess'd


By a prattling stream, on a Midsummer's eve,
Where the woodbine and jess’mine their boughs

“ Fair Flora,” I cry'd, “ to my harbour repair,
For I must have a chaplet for sweet William's

She brought me the vi'let that groves on the hill,
The vale-dwelling lily, and gilded jonquill:
But such languid odours how cou'd I approve,
Just warm from the lips of the lad that I love,
She brought me, his faith and his truth to dis-
The undying myrtle, and ever-green.bay : [play,

But why these to me, who're his constancy And sing with more than usual glee

To Nancy, who was born for me.
And Billy bas laurels enough of his own. Tell the blithe Graces as they bound
The next was the gift that I could not contemn, Luxuriant in the buxom round;
For she brought me two roses that grew on a stem: They're not more elegantly free,
Of the dear nuptial tie they stood emblems confest, Than Nancy, who was born for me.
So I kiss'd 'em, and press'd 'em quite close to Tell royal Venus, though she rove,
my breast.

The queen of the immortal grove; She brought me a sun-flow'r_“This, fair one's That she must share her golden fee your due;

With Nancy, who was born for me.
For it once was a maiden, and love-sick like you:” Tell Pallas, though th’ Athenian school,
Oh! give it me quick, to my shepherd I'll run, And ev'ry trite pedantic fool,
As true to his fame, as this flow'r to the Sun.

On her to place the palm agree,
Tis Nancy's, who was born for me.
Tell spotless Dian, though she range,

The regent of the up-land grange,

In chastity she yields to thee,

0, Nancy, who wast born for me.

Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove, No more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,

With all the pow'rs of life and love, Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me be- Tbat I'd disdain to breathe or be, fore;

If Nancy was not born for me.
My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold :
Pll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my

And will sing to my lass with the golden locks.
Thougho'er her white forehead thegilttresses flow,

Like the rays of the Sun on a hillock of snow;

My Flor 10, wildest of his sex,
Such painters of old drew the qucen of the fair,
Tis the taste of the ancients, 'tis classical bair:

(Who sure the veriest saint would vex)

From beauty roves to beauty; And though witlings may scoff, and though rail

Yet, though abroad the wanton roam, lery mocks,

Whene'er he deigns to stay at home, Yet PII sing to my lass with the golden locks.

He always minds his duty. To live and to love, lo converse and be free,

Something to every charming she,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:

In thoughtless prodigality,
Away go the hours in kisses and rhyme,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time; To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,

He's granting still and granting; A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,

And every madam, every miss; He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.

Yet I find nothing wanting. Than the swan in the brook she's more dear to my If haply I his will displease,

sight, Her mien is more stately, her brcast is more white, Tempestuous as th’autumnal seas

He foams and rages ever;
Her sweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,

But when he ceases from his ire,
They are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the Park in the Mall, at the play in the box,

I cry, “Such spirit, and such fire,

Is surely wond'rous clever.”
My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.

I ne'er want reason to complain;
Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow,
Sball be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my But sweet is pleasure after pain,

And every joy grows greater.

[soft pain; She shall ease’my fend heart, and shall sooth my I should not like him half so well,

Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell, While thousands of rivals are sigbing in vain ;

If I cou'd make him better. Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like

the fox, While I have the lass with the golden locks.


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Tis Nancy's birth-day-raise your strains,
Ye nymphs of the Parnassian plains,

From morn to night, from day to day
At all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever ccase.

Forbear, my Celia, oh! forbear,
If your own health, or ours you prize;
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing than your eyes.
Your tongue's a traitor to your face,
Your fame's by your own noise obscurid,
All are distracted while they gaze ;
But if they listen they are cur'd.
Your silence would acquire more praise,
Than all you say, or all I write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
Then bush—and be an angel quite.

Leave her, defenceless and alone,
A pris'ner in the torrid zone,
The sunshine there might vainly vie
With the bright lustre of her eye ;
But Phæbus' self, with all his fire,
Cou'd ne'er one unchaste thought inspire ;
But yirtue's path she'd still pursue,
And still, my fair, wou'd copy you.



BALLAD VI. From all her fair loquacious kind, So different is my Rosalind, That not one accent can I gain To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain. Ye lovers, who can construe sighs, And are the interpreters of eyes, To language all her looks translate, And in her gestures read my fate. And if in them you chance ta find Aught that is gentle, aught that's kind, Adieu mean hopes of being great, And all the littleness of state. All thonghts of grandeur I'll despise, Which from dependence take their rise ; To serve her shall be my employ, And love's sweet agony my joy.

BALLAD VIII. Of all my experience how vast the amount, Since fifteen long winters I fairly can count ! Was ever a damsel so sadly betray d, To live to these years and yet still be a maid ? Ye heroes, triumphant by land and by sea, Sworn rot'ries to love, but unmindful of me; You can storm a strong fort, or can form a

blockade, Yet ye stand by like dastards, and see me a

maid. Ye lawyers so just, who with slippery tongue, Can do wbat you please, or with right, or with

wrong, Can it be or by law or by equity said, That a buxom young girl ought to die an old

maid. Ye learned physicians, whose excellent skill Can save, or demolish, can cure, or can kill, To a poor, forlorn damsel contribute your aid, Who is sick-very sick-of remaining a maid. Ye fops, I invoke, not to list to my song, Who answer no end-and to no sex belong; Ye echoes of echoes, and shadows of shade For if I had you I might still be a maid.





BALLAD VII. The blooming damsel, whose defence Is adamantinę innocence, Requires no guardian to attend Her steps, for Modesty's her friend; Though her fair arms are weak to wield The glitt'ring spear, and massy shield; Yet safe from force and fraud combin'd, She is an Amazon in mind. With ihis artillery she goes, Not only 'mongst the harmless beaux ; But e'en unhurt and updismay'd, Views the long sword and fierce cockade, Though all a syren as she talks, And all a goddess as she walks, Yet decency each action guides, And wisdom o'er her tongue presides. Place her in Russia's showery plains, Where a perpetual winter reigns, The elements may rave and range, Yet her fix'd mind will never change. Place her, Ambition, in thy tow'rs, ?Mongst the more dang'rous golden show'rs, E'en there she'd spurn the venal tribe, And fold her arms against the bribe,

Ye ancient patriarchs of the wood,

That veil around these awful glooms, Who many a century have stood

In verdant age, that ever blooms. Ye Gothic tow'rs by vapours dense.

Obscur'd into severer state, In pastoral magnificence

At once so simple and so great. Why all your jealous shades on me,

Ye hoary elders, do ye spread? Fair innocence shou'd still be free, Nought shou'd be chain'd, but what we

dread, Say, must these tears for ever flow?

Can I from patience learn content,
While solitude still nurses woe,

And leaves me leisure to lament.
My guardian see !--who wards off peace,

Whuse cruelty is his employ,
Who bids the tongue of transport cease

And stops each avenue to joy,


Preedom of air alone is givin,

And am as raging Barry hot. To aggravate, nor sooth my grief,

True, virtuous, lovely, was his dove, To view th’immensely.distant Heav'n,

But virtue, beauty, truth and love,
My nearest prospect of relief.

Are other names for Harriot,
Ye factious members who oppose,

And tire both houses with your prose,

Though never can you carry aught;
You might command the nation's sense,

And without bribery convince,
Written in Goodwood Gardens, September, 1750. Had ye the voice of Harriot.

You of the music common weal,

Who borrow, beg, compose, or steal, “YE kills that overlook the plains,

Cantata, air, or ariet ; Where wealth and Gothic greatness reigns,

You'd burn your cumb'rous works in score, Where Nature's hand by Art is check’d,

And sing, compose, and play no more, And Taste herself is architect ;

If once you heard my Harriot. Ye fallows gray, ye forests brown,

Were there a wretch who dar'd essay, And seas that the vast prospect crown,

Such wond'rous sweetness to betray, Ye fright the soul with Fancy's store,

I'd call him an Iscariot ; Nor can she one idea more !"

But her e'en satire can't annoy, I said when dearest of her kind

So strictly chaste, but kindly coy, (Her form, the picture of her mind)

Is fair angelic Harriot.
Chloris approach'd— The landscape flew! While sultans, emperors, and kings,
All nature varish'd from my view!

(Mean appetite of earthly things) She seem'd all nature to comprize,

In all the waste of war riot ; Her lips! her beauteous breasts ! her eyes ! Love's softer duel be my aim, That rous'd, and yet abash'd desire,

Praise, honour, glory, conquest, fame, With liquid, languid, living fire!

Are center'd all in Harriot. But then her voice !-how fram'dť endear! I swear by Hymen and the pow'rs The music of the gods to hear!

That haunt love's ever blushing bow'rs, Wit that so piercd, without offence,

So sweet a nymph to marry ought: So brac'd by the strong nerves of sense !

Then may I hug her silken yoke,

I Pallas with Venus play'd her part,

And give the last, the final stroke,
To rob me of an bonest heart;

T'accomplish lovely Harriot.
Prudence and passion jointly strove,
And reason was th’ally of love.
Ah me! thuu sweet, delicious maid,

From whence shall I solicit aid ?

Hope and despair alike destroy,
One kills with grief, and one with joy.

Bring, Phæbus, from Parnassian bow'rs, Celestial Chloris! Nymph divine !

A chaplet of poetic flowers, To save me, the dear task be thine.

That far outbloom the May; Though conquest be the woman's care,

Bring verse so smooth, and thoughts so free, The angel's glory is to spare.

And all the Muses heraldry,

To blazon Jenny Gray.
Observe yon almond's rich perfume,

Presenting Spring with early bloom,

In ruddy tints how gay !
Thus, foremost of the blushing fair,

With such a blithsome, buxom air,

Blooms lovely Jenny Gray.
Great Phoebus in his vast career,

The merry, chirping, plumy throng Who forms the self succeeding year,

The bushes and the twigs among Thron'd in his amber chariot;

That pipe the sylvan lay,
Sees not an object balf so bright,

All hush'd at her delightful voice
Nor gives such joy, such life, such light, In silent ecstacy rejoice,
As dear delicious Harriot.

And study Jenny Gray.
Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,

Ye balmy odour-breathing gales, Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not bums, That lightly sweep the green rob’d vales,

Read Malebranche, Boyle and Marriot; And in each rose-bush play; I scorn their philosophic strife,

I know you all, you're arrant cheats, And study nature from the life,

And steal your more than natural sweets, (Where most she shines) in Harriot.

From lovely Jenny Gray. When she admits another wooer,

Pomona and that goddess bright, I rave like Shakespeare's jealous Moor,

The florists and the maids delight,




In vain their charms display;

While a forc'd blush her cheeks inflam'd, The luscious nectarine, juicy peach,

ad seem'd to say she was asham'd. In richness, nor in sweetness reach

No handkerchief her bosom bid, The lips of Jenny Gray.

No tippet from our sight debars To the sweet knot of Graces three,

Her heaving breasts with moles o'erspread, Th’immortal band of bards agree,

Mark’d, little hemispheres, with stars; A tuneful tax to pay ;

While on them all our eyes we more, There yet remains a matchless worth,

Our eyes that meant immoderate love. There yet remains a lovelier fourth,

In every gesture, every air,
And she is Jenny Gray.

Th’ imperfect lisp, the languid eye,
In every motion of the fair

We awkward imitators vie,

And, forming our own from her face,

Strive to look pretty as we gaze.

If e'er she sneer'd, the mimic crowd

Sneerd too, and all their pipes laid down ;

If she but stoop'd, we lowly bow'd,

And sullen if she'gan to frown Full full many a heart, that now is free,

In solemn sidence sat profound
May shortly, fair one, beat for thee,

But did she laugh!-the laugh went round.
And court thy pleasing chain;
Then prudent hear a friend's advice,

Iler snuff-box if the nymph pulld out,
And learn to guard, by conduct nice,

Each Johnian in responsive airs

Fed with the tickling dust bis snout,
The conquests you shall gain,

With all the politesse of bears.
When Tabby Tom your Crop pursues,

Dropt she her fan beneath her hoop,
How many a bite, and many a bruise

Ev'n stake-stuck Clarians strore to stoop.
The amorous swain endures ?
E’er yet one favouring glance he catch,

The sons of culinary Kays
What frequent squalls, how many a scratch

Smoking from the eternal treat,
His tenderness procures?

Lost in ecstatic transport gaze.

As though the fair was good to eat; Tho' this,'tis own'd, be somewhat rude,

Ev'n gloomiest king's men, pleas'd awhile, And Puss by nature be a prude,

“ Grin horribly a ghastly smile.” Yet hence you iras improve, By decent pride, and dint of scoff,

But hark, she cries, “ My mamma calls,” Keep caterwauling coxcombs off,

And straight she's vanish'd from our sight; And ward th' attacks of love.

'Twas then we saw the empty bowls,

'Twas then we first perceiv'd it night; Your Crop a mousing when you see,

While all, sad synod, silent aroan,
She teaches you economy,

Both that she went—and went alone,
Which makes the pot to boil :
And when she plays with what she gains,
She shows you pleasure springs from pains,
And mirth's the fruit of tuil.


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Written at College, 1741,
“Relax, sweet girl, your wearied mind,

And to hear the poet talk,
Gentlest creature of your kind,

Lay aside your sponge and chalk;
Cease, cease the bar-bell, nor refuse
To hear the jingle of the Muse.
Hear your numerous vot’ries prayers,

Come, O come, and bring with thee
Giddy whimsies, wanton airs,

And all love's soft artillery ;
Smiles and throbs, and frowns, and tears.
With all the little hopes and fears."
She beard-she came and e'er she spoke,

Not unravish'd you might see
Her wanton eyes that wink'd the joke,

E'er her tongue could set it free,

Sylvia, the most contented of her kind,
Remain'd in joyless widowhood resignid:
In vain to gain her every shepherd strove,
Each passion ebb’d, but grief, which drowned


,” she cry'd,“ ye swains, be mute, Nor with your odious fruitless suit

My loyal thoughts controul ;
My grief on resolution's rock
Is built, nor can temptation shock

The purpose of my soul.
« Though blithe content with jocund air,
May balance comfort against care,

And make me life sustain;
Yet ev'ry joy has wing'd its flight,
Except that pensive dear delight

That takes it's rise from pain."

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