UPON MR. MASON'S TAKING ORDERS.

BY THE SAME.

To Holderneffe, the mufes three,
Of Painting, Mufic, Poetry,

To him, their long-lov'd patron, friend,
In grievous pet this letter fend

Give ear, my lord, while we complain,
Our fex to you ne'er figh'd in vain. i
'Tis faid-A youth by you befriended,
Whom to your fmiles we recommended;
Seduc'd by you, abjures our charms,
And flies for ever from our arms!s bu
Could D'Arcy, whom we lov'd, carefs'd,
In whofe protection we were bless'd,
Could he, to whom our Sire imparts
That fecret rare to tafte our arts,
Could he, ungrateful, and unkind!
From us eftrange our Mafon's mind?

Could he, who ferves and loves the nation,
So little weigh its reputation,

As in this fcarcity of merit,

To damp with grace poetic fpirit?
But be affur'd your scheme is vain-

He must, 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 caflock, gown, and grave vocation,
Whate'er he now has fworn, he fwore,
With ftronger zeal to us before:
He pafs'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 feftival!

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 ftruck him with his rays;
And all our Sifters 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 SAME.

MARSEILLES no more shall boast his art,

Which form'd the youth of France; For you inftruct, great Duke and Hart, Grown Gentlemen, to dance.

He

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 THE SAME.

TALK of war with a Briton, he'll boldly ad

vance,

That one English foldier will beat ten of France;
Would we alter the boast from the sword to

the pen,

Our odds are still greater, ftill greater our men:
In the deep mines of science tho' Frenchmen may

toil,

Can their strength be compar'd to Locke, Newton, and Boyle?

Let them rally their heroes, fend forth all their pow'rs,

Their verfe-men, and profe-men; then match them with ours!

Firft Shakespeare and Milton, like gods in the fight,

Have put their whole drama and epic to flight;

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

D L E.

A R I D D

BY THE SAME:

KITTY, a fair, but frozen maid,
Kindled a flame I still deplore;
The hoodwink'd boy I call'd in aid,
Much of his near approach afraid,
So fatal to my fuit before.

At length, propitious to my pray'r,
The little urchin came;
At once he fought the mid-way air,
And foon he clear'd, with dextrous care,
The bitter relicks of my flame.

To Kitty, Fanny now fucceeds,

She kindles flow, but lafting fires:

With care my appetite fhe feeds;
Each day fome willing victim bleeds,

To fatisfy my ftrange defires.

Say,

The number of the French academy employed in fettling their language,

Say, by what title §, or what name,
Muft I this youth address?

Cupid and he are not the same,

Tho' both can raife, or quench a flame
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 wifeft, can

Infure the pleasures of to-morrow!

Thefe eyes, fo late my envy'd boast,
By Celia priz'd above all other,
See one, alas! for ever loft,

Its fellow weeping for its brother.

Yet ftill I'm bleft while one remains,
For viewing lovely Celia's beauty,

Her looks ftill ease acutest pains,

With tenderest love and cheerful duty.

Had I for her in battle strove,

The fatal blow I'd borne with pleasure,

And ftill to prove my conftant love,