I scorn the Lydian river's golden wave,
And all the vulgar charms of human life,
I only ask to live my Delia's slave,
And, when I long have served her, call her wife.
I only ask, of her I love possest,
To sink, o'ercome with bliss, in safe repose,
To strain her yielding beauties to my breast,
And kiss her wearied eye-lids till they close.
Attend, O Juno! with thy sober ear,
Attend, gay Venus, parent of desire;
This one fond wish, if you refuse to hear,
Oh, let me with this sigh of love expire!
This nobleman was son and heir to the Earl of Uxbridge, and died in the 51st year of his age.
A few copies of his Miscellanies in Prose and Verse were printed in the year 1741, to be circulated only among his most intimate friends.
PLEASURE but cheats us with an empty name,
Still seems to vary, yet is still the same;
Amusement's all its utmost skill can boast,
By use it lessens, and in thought is lost.
The youth that riots, and the age that hoards;
Folly that sacrifices things to words;
Pride, wit, and beauty in one taste agree,
"Tis sensual, or 'tis mental luxury.
Sad state of nature, doom'd to fruitless pain,
Something to wish and want, but never gain:
Restless we live, and disappointed die,
Unhappy tho' we know not how, or why.
* * * * * *
Fools ever vain, at some distinction aim,
And fancy madness is the way to Fame:
No matter how the deathless name's acquired,
By Countries ravaged, or a Temple fired:
Alike transmitted down to latest times,
A Trajan's virtues, and a Nero's crimes.
Means are indifferent so the end's obtain❜d,
Richard was guilty, but what then? he reign'd.
Would you be good, and great, the hope is vain,
The business is not to deserve, but gain:
Fortune is fickle, and but short her stay,
He comes too late that takes the farthest way.
Is this, O grandeur! then thy envy'd state,
To raise men's wonder, and provoke their hate?
By crimes procured, and then in fear enjoy'd,
By mobs applauded, and by mobs, destroy'd!
Say, mighty Cunning, which deserves the prize,
The courtier's promises, or trader's lies?
Some short-lived profit all the pains rewards
Of bankrupt dealers, and of perjur'd lords.
Honest alike, you own, but wiser far,
The knave upon the bench than at the bar:
Where lies the diff'rence? only in degree,
And higher rank is greater infamy.
Poor rogues in chains but dangle to the wind,
Whilst rich ones live the terror of mankind.
Pomp, power, and riches, all mere trifles are, When purchased by the loss of character: Chance may the wise betray, the brave defeat, But they correct, or are above their fate. Credit once lost can never be retrieved,
How few will trust the man who once deceived? Craft, like the mole, works only under ground, Is lost in day-light, and destroy'd when found.
Nations mistaken, reasonings ill apply'd,
And sophisms that conclude on either side;
Alike the unwary, and the weak, mislead,
Who judge of men and things, as each succeed.
Did rivals fall by Borgia's vile deceit,
A Machiavel will call a Borgia great;
The lucky cheat proclaims the villain wise,
And fraud and murder are but policies.
The same despair which made good Cato die,
To Cæsar gave his last great victory.
Had right decided, and not fate, the cause,
Rome had preserved her Cato, and her laws.
Fortune sets off the bad, as tawdry dress
Shews but the more the wearer's homeliness.
So mad Caligula's vain triumph tells,
That all his conquests are but cockle-shells.
True merit shines in native splendor bright,
Whilst false but glares awhile, and hurts the sight:
As midnight vapours cast a glimmering blaze,
And to the darkness owe their feeble rays.
The wise Egyptians when their monarch dy'd,
By truths sure standard all his actions try'd.
When no false lustre, wealth, or pow'r appears
To bias judgment by its hopes or fears;
Then conquering chiefs profuse of subjects' blood,
And lazy dotards, indolently good;
That trust their people to a favourite's care,
Whose peaceful rapines cost 'em more than war,
By injured thousands, wrongs are doom'd to be
Perpetual marks of scorn and infamy.
Fortune with fools, and wit with knaves you find,
'Tis social virtue, shews the noble mind.
Above low wisdom, Cunning's mean pretence,
There is no counterfeiting excellence :
The artful head may act the honest part,
But all true honour rises from the heart.
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