ADVICE to the Marquis of ROCKINGHAM,

W

upon a late Occafion.

Written in 1765, by an OLD COURTIER.

ELL may they, Wentworth, call thee young,
What hear and feel! fift right from wrong,

And to a wretch be kind!

Old statesmen would reverse your plan,

Sink, in the minifter, the man,

And be both deaf and blind!

If thus, my lord, your heart o'erflows,
Know you, how many mighty foes
Such weakness will create you ?
Regard not what Fitzherbert fays,
For tho' you gain each good man's praise,
We older folks fhall hate you.

You should have fent, the other day,
Gk, the player, with frowns away,
Your fmiles but made him bolder;
Why would you hear his ftrange appeal,
Which dar'd to make a statesman feel?

I would that you were older!

You

You should be proud, and seem displeas'd,
Or you for ever will be teaz'd,

Your houfe with beggars haunted:
What, ev'ry fuitor kindly us'd?
If wrong, their folly is excus'd,

If right, their fuit is granted.

From preffing crowds of great and small,
To free yourself, give hopes to all,

And fail nineteen in twenty:

What, wound my honour, break my word!
You're young again.-You may, my lord,
Have precedents in plenty !

Indeed, young ftatefman, 'twill not do,-
Some other ways and means pursue,
More fitted to your station !

What from your boyish freeks can fpring?
Mere toys! The favour of your king,
Aud love of all the nation.

LIBERTY. LA LIBERT A.

TH

Newly tranflated from METASTASIO.

HANKS, Nicè, to thy treacherous art,
At length I breathe again;

The pitying gods have ta'en my part,

And eas'd a wretch's pain:

I feel,

I feel, I feel, that from its chain
My rescued foul is free,
Nor is it now I idly dream
Of fancied liberty.

Extinguish'd is my ancient flame,

All calm my thoughts remain ;
And artful love in vain fhall ftrive
To lurk beneath disdain.
No longer, when thy name I hear,
My confcious colour flies ;
No longer, when thy face I fee,
My heart's emotions rife.

I fleep, yet not in every dream
Thy image pictur'd fee;

I wake, nor does my alter'd mind
Fix its first thought on thee:
From thee far diftant when I roam,
No fond concern I know;

With thee I stay, nor yet from thence
Does pain or pleasure flow.

Oft of my Nicè's charms I fpeak,
Nor thrills my ftedfast heart;
Oft I review the wrongs I bore,

Yet feel no inward fmart.
No quick alarms confound my sense,
When Nicè near I fee;

Even with my rival I can fmile,

And calmly talk of thee.

Speak

Speak to me with a placid mien,
Or treat me with disdain;
Vain is to me the look fevere,
The gentle smile as vain.
Loft is the empire o'er my foul,
Which once thofe lips poffeft;
Those eyes no longer can divine
Each fecret of my breast.

What pleases now, or grieves my mind,
What makes me fad, or gay,
It is not in thy power to give,
Nor canft thou take away:

Each pleasant spot without thee charms,

The wood, the mead, the hill

And scenes of dullness, even with thee,
Are fcenes of dullness ftill.

Judge, if I fpeak with tongue fincere ;
Thou still art wond'rous fair ;
Great are the beauties of thy form,
But not beyond compare:
And, let not truth offend thine ear,
My eyes at length incline

To spy fome faults in that lov'd face,
Which once appear'd divine.

When from its fecret deep recefs
I tore the painful dart,
(My fhameful weaknefs I confefa)

It feem'd to split my heart;

But,

But, to relieve a tortur'd mind,

To triumph o'er difdain,

To gain my captive felf once more,
I'd fuffer every pain.

Caught by the birdlime's treacherous twigs,

To which he chanc'd to stray,
The bird his faften'd feathers leaves,
Then gladly flies away:

His fhorten'd wings he foon renews,
Of fnares no more afraid;
Then grows by paft experience wise,
Nor is again betray'd.

I know thy pride can ne'er believe
My paffion's fully o'er,
Because I oft repeat the tale,

And still add fomething more:-
"Tis natural inftinet prompts my tongue,
And makes the story laft,

As all mankind are fond to boast
Of dangers they have past.

The warrior thus, the combat o'er,
Recounts his bloody wars,

Tells all the hardships which he bore,

And fhews his ancient fcars.

Thus the glad flave, by profperous fate,

Freed from the fervile chain,

Shews to each friend the galling weight,

Which once he dragg'd with pain.