O take me, Goddefs, to thy care,
O hear a tender Lady's prayer!
Thy vot'refs once, as pure a maid
As ever rov'd the Delian shade,
Tho' now, by man's feduction won,
She wears, alas, a loofer zone."

In vain fhe pray'd. She mounts, fhe falls!
And Cæfar barks, and Betty fquawls.
The marble hearth receives below
The headlong dame, a direful blow!
And ftarting veins with blood difgrace
The fofter marble of her face.

Here might I fing of fading charms
Reclin'd on Betty's faithful neck,
Like Venus in Dione's arms,

And much from Homer might I fpeak,
But we refer to Pope's tranflation,
And haften to our plain narration.

While broths and plaifters are prepar'd,
And Doctors feed, and Madam fcar'd,
At length returns th' impatient Squire
Eager and panting with defire.
But finds his home a defart place,
No fpoufe to welcome his embrace,
No tender fharer of his blifs

To chide his abfence with a lifs.
Sullen in bed the Lady lay,

of day,

And muffled from the eye
Nor deign'd a look, averfe and fad
As Dido in th' Elyfian fhade.

Amaz'd,

Amaz'd, alarm'd, the bed he prefs'd,
And clafp'd her struggling to his breast.
My life, my foul, I cannot brook
This cruel, this averted look.

And is it thus at last we meet ?

Then rais'd her gently from the sheet.
What mean, he cries, these bleeding stains,
This muffled head, and bursting veins ?
What facrilegious hand could dare
To fix its impious vengeance there?
The Dog, the Dog! was all she said
And fobbing funk again in bed.

The Dog, the Dog! exprefs'd her grief,
Like poor Othello's handkerchief.

Meanwhile had Ben with prudent care
From Betty learnt the whole affair,
And drew th' impatient Squire afide,
To own the cheat he could not hide.
See, rafcal, fee, enrag'd he cries,
What tumors on her forehead rife!
How fwells with grief that face divine!
I own it all, the fault was mine,
Replies the Lad, dear angry Lord;
But hufh! come hither, not a word!
Small are the ills we now endure,
Thofe tumours, Sir, admit a cure.
But, had I done as you directed,
Whofe forehead then had been affected?
Had Captain Wilkins been forbidden,
Ah mafter, who had then been ridden ?"

S

AN EPISTLE

From a GROVE in DERBYSHIRE to a GROVE in SURRY.

INCE every naturalift agrees

That groves are nothing else but trees,
And root-bound trees, like distant creatures,
Can only correfpond by letters,

Borne on the winds which thro' us whistle,
Accept, dear fifter, this epiftle.

And first, as to their town relations
The ladies fend to know the fashions,
Would I, in fomething better fpelling,
Inquire how things go on at Haling;
For here, for all my master's ftorming,
I'm fure we strangely want reforming.
Long have my lab'ring trees confin'd
Such griefs as almost burst their rind
But you'll permit me to difclofe 'em,
And lodge them in your leafy bofom.

d;

When gods came down the woods among,
As fweetly chaunts poetic fong,
And Fauns and Sylvans fporting there
Attun'd the reed, or chas'd the fair,

My

My quiv'ring branches lightly fann'd
The movements of the mafter's hand;
Or half conceal'd, and half betray'd,
The blushing, flying, yielding maid;
Did even the bliss of heav'n improve,
And folac'd gods with earthly love!

But now the world is

grown

fo chafte, Or else my master has no taste,

That, I'll be fworn, the live-long year
We fcarely fee a woman here.

And what, alas, are woodland quires
To thofe who want your fierce defires?
Can philofophic bofoms know
Why myrtles fpring, or roses blow,
Why cowflips lift the velvet head,
Or woodbines form the fragrant fhade? ́
Even violet couches only fwell
To gratify his fight and fmell;
And Milton's univerfal Pan

Scarce makes him feel himself a man.

And then he talks your dull morality
Like fome old heathen man of quality,
(Plato, or what's his name who fled
So nobly at his army's head,)

For Chriflian lords have better breeding
Than by their talk to fhew their reading a
And what their fentiment in fact is,
That you may gather from their practice.

Tho'

Tho' really, if it were no worse,

We might excufe his vain discourse;
Tofs high our heads above his voice,
Or flop the babbling echo's noife;
But he, I tell you, has such freaks,
He thinks and acts whate'er he speaks.

Or, if he needs muft preach and reason,
Why let him chuse a proper season;
Such mufty morals we might hear
When whistling winds have ftript us bare,
As, after fixty, pious folks

Will on wet Sundays read good books.
And I must own, dear fifter Haling,
'Tis mine, like many a lady's failing.
(Whom worried spouse to town conveys
From eafe, and exercife, and air,
To fleepless nights, and raking days,
And joys-too exquifite to bear)
To feel December's piercing harms,
And every winter lose my charms.
*While you ftill flourish fresh and fair
Like your young
ladies all the year.

O happy groves, who never feel
The ftroke of winter, or of steel;
Nor find, but in the + poet's lay,
The race of leaves like men decay,

* A great many of the trees at Haling are exotics and evergreens.

t Homer,

Nor