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To Holdernefle, the muses three,
Of Painting, Music, Poetry,
To him, their long-lor'd patron, friend,
In grievous pet this letter send

Give ear, my lord, while we complain,
Our sex to you ne'er figh'd in vain, i
'Tis said-A youth by you befriended,
Whom to your

[mites we recommended;
Seduc'd by you, abjures our charms,
And Kies for ever from our apms! :D
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 muit, he shall be ours again :
Nor crape nor lawn fhall quench his fires,
We'll fill his breaft with new defires,

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 myft'ry was conceal'd
Each kindred pow'r obey'd our call,
And grac'd the folemn festival !
The Loves forfook their Cyprian bow'rs,
And round his temples wreath'd their flow'rs;
The Graces danc'd their myftic 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.

ON THE ACADEMY

FOR TEACHING GROWN PEOPLE TO DANCE,

BY

THE

3 A M E.

Marseilles

IRSEILLes no more shall boast his art,

Which form'd the youth of France ; For you instruct, great Duke and Hart,

Grown Gentlemen, to dance.

Не.

He only bends the pliant twig;

You ftrike a bolder stroke;
You foften rocks, make mountains jig,

And bend the knotted oak,

ON JOHNSON'S DICTIONARY.

BY INE

SAML.

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 compar'd to Locke, News

ton, and Boyle ? Let them rally their heroes, fend forth all their

pow'rs, Their verse-men, and prose-men; then match

them with ours ! First Shakespeare and Milton, like gods in the

fight, Have put their whole drama and epic to fight;

In fatires, epistles, and odes would they cope, Their numbers retreat before Dryden and Pope; And Johnson well arm'd, like a hero of yore, Has beat forty + French, and will beat forty more.

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Kitty, a fair, but frozen maid,

Kindled a flame I still deplore ;
The hood wink'd boy I call'd in aid,
Much of his néar approach afraid,

So fatal to my suit before.
At length, propitious to my pray'r,

The little urchin came;
At once he fought the mid-way air,
And soon he clear'd, with dextrous care,

The bitter relicks of my fame.
To Kitty, Fanny now fucceeds,

She kindles flow, but lasting fires :
With care my appetite she feeds;
Each day fome willing victim bleeds,

To satisfy my strange defires.

Say,

+ The number of the French academy employed io fercling their language,

Say, by what title &, or what name,

Muft I this youth address?
Cupid and he are not the same,
Tho' both can raise, or quench a fame

I'll kiss you, if you guess.

SIR WILLIAM YOUNG TO HIS LADY,

ON HAVING AN EYE BEAT OUT.

How vain are all the joys of man,

By nature born to certain forrow, Since none, not e'en the wiselt, can

Insure the pleasures of to-morrow! These eyes, fo late my envy'd boaft,

By Celia priz'd above all other, See one, alas ! for ever lost,

Its fellow weeping for its brother. Yet till I'm bleft while one remains,

For viewing lovely Celia's beaury, Her looks still ease acuteft pains,

With tendereft love and cheerful duty.
Had I for her in battle Atrove,

The fatal blow I'd borne with pleasure,
And ftill to prove my constant love,
With joy I'd lose my single treasure.

$ The chimney-sweeper.

E'en

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