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YE beaux esprits, say, what is Grace?
Dwells it in motion, shape, or face ?
Or is it all the three combin'd,
Guided and soften'd by the mind?
Where it is not, all eyes may see ;
But where it is,
-all hearts agree :
'I'is there, when easy in its state
The mind is elegantly great;
Where looks give speech to ev'ry feature,
The sweetest eloquence of nature;
A harmony of thought and motion,
To which at once we pay devotion.
-But where to find this nonpareil !
Where does this female wonder dwell,
Who can at will our hearts command?
Behold in public--CUMBERLAND!
LYCURGUS of Bath,
Be not given to wrath,
Thy rigours the fair should not feel :
Still fix them your debtors,
Make laws like your betters,
And as fast as you make them-repeal,
MUST I, Clorinda, ever court?
Why all these pains your fame to smother? Or is it that I'm made your sport
To recommend you to another.
Whate'er the cause, of this be sure,
Love's keenest shaft has touch'd my heart ; Nor will the wound admit of cure,
Until we're either friends or-parts
UPON MR. MASON'S TAKING ORDERS.
To Holdernesle, the muses three,
Of Painting, Music, Poetry,
To him, their long-lov'd patron, friend,
In grievous pet this letter fend
Give ear, my Lord, while we complain,
Our sex to you ne'er figh'd in vain.
'Tis faid-A youth by you befriended,
Whom to your smiles we recommended ;
Seduc'd by you, abjures our charins,
And Alies for ever from our arms!
Could D'Arcy, whom we lov'd, caress'd,
In whose protection we were bless’d,
Could he, to whom our Sire imparts
That secret rare to taste our arts,
Could he, ungrateful, and unkind !
From us estrange our Mason's mind ?
Could he, who serves and loves the nation,
So little weigh its reputation,
As in this scarcity of merit,
To damp with grace poetic spirit ?
But be assur'd your scheme is vain-
He must, he shall be ours again :
Nor crape nor lawn fhall quench his fires,
We'll fill his breast with new desires ;
In vain you plead his ordination,
His caffock, gown, and grave vocation,
Whate'er he now has sworn, he swore,
With stronger zeal to us before :
He pass'd our forms of confecration,
His lips receiv'd our inspiration ;
To him were all our rites reveal'd,
From him no myst'ry was conceal'd-
Each kindred pow'r obey'd our call,
And grac'd the folemn festival!
The Loves forsook their Cyprian bow'rs,
And round his temples wreath'd their flow'rs;
The Graces danc'd their mystic maze,
Our Father struck him with his rays ;
And all our Sisters one by one,
Gave him full draughts of Helicon!
Thus bound our servant at the shrine,
Ordain'd he was, and made divine.
FOR TEACHING GROWN PEOPLE TO DANCE,
MARSEILLES no more shall boast his art,
Which form'd the youth of France; For you instruct, great Duke and Hart, Grown Gentlemen, to dance.
He only bends the pliant twig;
You strike a bolder stroke ;
You foften rocks, make mountains jig,
And bend the knotted vak.
TALK of war with a Briton, he'll boldly ad.
vance, That one English soldier will beat ten of France ; Would we alter the boast from the sword to the
pen, Our odds are still greater, still greater our men : In the deep mines of science tho' Frenchmen may
toil, Can their strength be compard to Locke, Newton,
and Boyle? Let them rally their heroes, send forth all their
pow'rs, Their verse-men, and profe-men; then match them
with ours ! First Shakespeare' and Milton, like gods in the
fight, Have put their whole drama and epic to flight: