Elegant Extracts

From prince and people to command applause,
'Midft ermin'd peers to guide the high debate,
To shield Britannia's and Religion's laws,

And fteer with fteady courfe the helm of state-
Fate yet forbids; nor circumfcribes alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes con-
fines;

Forbids in Freedom's veil t' infult the throne,
Beneath her inafque to hide the worft defigns;
To fill the madding crowd's perverted mind
With "penfions, taxes, marriages, and Jews;"
Or fhut the gates of heaven on loft mankind,
And wreft their darling hopes, their future

views.

Far from the giddy town's tumultuous ftrife,
Their wishes yet have never learn'd to ftray;
Content and happy in a fingle life,

They keep the noifelefs tenor of their way.
Ev'n now their books from cobwebs to protect,
Inclos'd by doors of glafs in Doric style,
On polifh'd pillars rais'd with bronzes deck'd,
They claim the paffing tribute of a fmile:
Oft are the author's names, though richly bound,
Mif-fpelt by blundering binders' want of care;
And many a catalogue is ftrew'd around,
To tell the admiring gueft what books are there.
For who, to thoughtlefs ignorance a prey,
Neglects to hold short dalliance with a book ?
Who there but wishes to prolong his stay,

"A nymph whofe fnowy veft and maiden fear
"Improv'd her beauty while the knot was tied.
"Now, by his patron's bounteous care remov'd,
"He roves enraptur'd thro' the fields of Kent;
"Yet, ever mindful of the place he lov'd,
"Read here the letter which he lately fent."
The Letter:

And on those cases cafts a lingering look ?
Reports attract the lawyer's parting eyes,
Novels Lord Fopling and Sir Plume require;
For Songs and Plays the voice of Beauty cries,
And Senfe and Nature Grandifon defire.
For thee, who, mindful of thy lov'd compeers,
Doft in thefe lines their artlefs tale relate,
If chance, with prying fearch, in future years,
Some antiquarian fhould enquire thy fate;
Haply fome friend may thake his hoary head,
And fay, "Each morn unchill'd by froits he.

66 ran,

"With hofe ungarter'd, o'er yon turfy bed,

"To reach the chapel ere the pfalms began; "There, in the arms of that lethargic chair, "Which rears its old moth-eaten back fo high, "At noon he quaff'd three glaffes to the fair, "And por'd upon the news with curious cye. “Now by the fire engag'd in serious talk, "Or mirthful converfe, would he loitering

"ftand;

"Then in the garden chofe a funny walk,

"Or launch'd the polish'd bowl with steady ❝ hand.

IN rural innocence fecure I dwell,

Alike to fortune and to fame unknown; Approving confcience cheers my humble cell, And focial quiet marks me for her own: Next to the bleffings of religious truth,

Two gifts my endless gratitude engage— A Wife, the joy and tranfport of my youth; Now with a Son, the comfort of my age. Seek not to draw me from this kind retreat,

"One morn we mifs'd him at the hour of pray'r
"Nor in the hall, nor on his favourite green.
"Another came; nor yet within the chair,

"Nor yet at bowls or chapel was he feen.
"The next we heard that, in a neighbouring
"shire,

"That day to church he led a blushing bride,

In loftier fpheres unfit, untaught to move; Content with calm domeftic life, where meet The fweets of friendship, and the smiles of love.

§ 169. The Three Warnings. A Tale. By Mrs. THRALE.

THE tree of deepest root is found

Leaft willing ftill to quit the ground;
Twas therefore laid by ancient fages,

That love of life increas'd with years
So much, that in our latter ftages,
When pains grow sharp, and fickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.
This great affection to believe,
Which all confefs, but few perceive,
If old affertions can 't prevail,
Be pleas'd to hear a modern tale.

When iports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbour Dobfon's wedding-day,
Death call'd afide the jocund groom
With him into another room;

And looking grave- You muft,' fays he,
Quit your Tweet bride, and come with me."
With you?' the hapless husband cried:
With you! and quit my Sufan's fide?
Young as I am, 'tis monftrous hard!
Befides, in truth, I'm not prepar'd:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-night, you know.'
What more he urg'd I have not heard,

His reafons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent fpar'd,

And left to live a little longer.
His hour-glafs trembled while he fpoke-
Yet calling up a ferious look,
Neighbour,' he said, farewel; no more
Shall Death difturb your mirthful hour:
And farther, to avoid all blame
To give you time for preparation,
'Of cruelty upon my name,
And fit you for your future station,
Three feveral warnings you fhall have,
Before you 're fummon'd to the grave:
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,
And grant a kind reprieve;

In hopes you'll have no more to say,
But, when I call again this away,

Well pleas'd the world will leave.' To thefe conditions both confented, And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he liv'd, how wife, how well,
How roundly he purfued his courfe,
And fmok'd his pipe, and ftrok'd his horse,
The willing mufe fhall tell :
He chaffer'd then, he bought, he fold,
Nor once perceiv'd his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near;
His friends not falfe, his wife no fhrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He pafs'd his hours in peace:

But while he view'd his wealth increase,
While thus along Life's dufty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whofe hafte no mortal spares,
Uncall'd, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in mufing mood,
As ail alone he fate,

Th' unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him ftood.

Half kill'd with anger and furprise,
So foon return'd!' old Dobfon cries.

So foon, d'ye call it !' Death replies : • Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest ! Since I was here before

'Tis fix-and-thirty years at least,

And you are now fourfcore.'

So much the worfe,' the clown rejoin'd;

To fpare the aged would be kind;

However, fee your fearch be legal;

And your authority-is 't regal?

Elfe you are come on a fool's errand,

With but a Secretary's warrant.

Befide, you promis'd me Three Warnings, Which I have look'd for nights and mornings! But for that lofs of time and cafe,

I can recover damages.'

I know,' cries Death, that, at the best,
I feldom am a welcome gueft;
But don't be captious, friend, at least :
I little thought you'd ftill be able
To ftump about your farm and ftable;
Your years have run to a great length;
I wish you joy, tho', of your ftrength !'
Hold,' fays the farmer, not fo faft!
I have been lame thefe four years paft.'
• And no great wonder,' Death replies:
However, you ftill keep your eyes;
And fure, to fee one's loves and friends,
For legs and arms would make amends.'
Perhaps, fays Dobfon, fo it might,
But latterly I've loft my fight.'

This is a fhocking story, 'faith;
Yet there's fome comfort ftill,' fays Death:
Each strives your fadness to amufe;
I warrant you hear all the news.'

There's none,' cries he; and if there were, ← I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear.'

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The Cit's Country Box.

Vos fapere, et folos aio bene vivere, quorum
Confpiciter nitidis fundata pecunia villis.

THE
HE wealthy cit, grown old in trade,
Now wishes for the rural fhade,
And buckles to his one-horse chair
Old Dobbin, or the founder'd mare;
While, wedg'd in clofely by his fide,
Sits Madam, his unwieldy bride,
With Jacky on a ftool before 'em,
And out they jog in due decorum.
Scarce paft the turnpike half a mile,

LLOYD,

How all the country feems to fmile!' And as they flowly jog together, The cit commends the road and weather: While Madam doats upon the trees, And longs for ev'ry houfe fhe fees; Admires its views, its fituation, And thus the opens her oration:

What fignifies the loads of wealth, Without that richest jewel, health? Excufe the fondnefs of a wife, Who doats upon your precious life! Such ceafeicfs toil, fuch conftant care, Is more than human ftrength can bear: One may obferve it in your faceIndeed, my dear, you break apace; And nothing can your health repair, But exercife and country air.

Sir Traffick has a houfe, you know About a mile from Cheney-row: He's a good man, indeed, 'tis true; But not fo warm, my dear, as you : And folks are always apt to fneerOne would not be out-done, my deart' Sir Traffick's name, fo well applied, Awak'd his brother-merchant's pride; And Thrifty, who had all his life Paid utmost deference to his wife, Confefs'd her arguments had reason; And by th' approaching fummer fseason Draws a few hundreds from the stocks, And purchases his Country Box.

Some three or four miles out of town (An hour's ride will bring you down) He fixes on his choice abode, Not half a furlong from the road; And fo convenient does it lay, The ftages pafs it ev'ry day: And then fo fnug, fo mighty pretty, To have a house fo near the city! Take but your places at the Boar, You're fet down at the very door.

Well then, fuppofe them fix'd at last, White-washing, painting, fcrubbing paft;

HOR.

Hugging

Hugging themfelves in cafe and clover,
With all the fuis of moving over;
Lo, a new heap of whims are bred,
And wanton in my lady's head!

• Well! to be fure, it must be own'd, It is a charming spot of ground: So fweet a distance for a ride, And all about fo countryfied; • 'Twould come but to a trifling price To make it quite a paradife! I cannot bear those nafty rails, • Those ugly, broken, mouldy pales: Suppofe, my dear, inftead of these, • We build a railing all Chinese; Altho' one hates to be expos'd, 'Tis difmal to be thus inclos'd: • One hardly any objects fees

I wish you 'd fell thofe odious trees.
Objects continual paffing by,

• Were fomething to amufe the eye;
But to be pent within the walls,
One might as well be at St. Paul's.
Our house beholders would adore,
Was there a level lawn before,
• Nothing its views to incommode,
But quite laid open to the road;
While ev'ry traveller, in amaze,
Should on our little manfion gaze;'
And, pointing to the choice retreat,

• Cry,

"That's Sir Thrifty's country-feat!" No doubt her arguments prevail, For Madam's TASTE can never fail. Bleft age! when all men may procure The title of a connoiffeur; When noble and ignoble herd Are govern'd by a fingle word; Tho', like the royal German dames, It bears an hundred Chrißian namesAs Genius, Fancy, Judgment, Gout, Whim, Caprice, Je ne fçais quoi, Virtù· Which appellations all defcribe TASTE, and the modern tasteful tribe.

Now bricklayers, carpenters, and joiners, With Chinese artifts and defigners, Produce their schemes of alteration, To work this wondrous reformation. The ufeful dome, which fecret food, Embofom'd in the yew tree's wood, The traveller with amazement fecs A temple Gothic or Chinese, With many a bell and tawdry rag on, And crefted with a fprawling dragon; A wooden arch is bent aftride A ditch of water, four feet wide, With angles, curves, and zig-zag lines, From Halfpenny's exact designs: In front a level lawn is feen, Without a fhrub upon the green; Where Tafte would want its firft great law, But for the fkulking, fly ha-ha; By whofe miraculous affiftance You gain a profpect two ñelds diftance. And now from Hyde-park Corner come The gods of Athens and of Rome.

That the Nofe has had fpectacles always in wear, Which amounts to poffeffion time out of mind. Then, holding the fpectacles up to the courtYour lordship obferves they are made with a ftraddle,

As wide as the ridge of the Nofe is; in fhort, Defign'd to fit close to it, just like a faddle. Again, would your lordship a moment fuppofe

(Tis a cafe that has happen'd, and may be again) That the vifage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would or who could wear spectacles

then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument fhews,
With areafoning the court will never condemn,
That the fpectacles plainly were made for the Nofe,
And the Nole was as plainly intended for them.
Then fhifting his fide, as a lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes;
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally
wife.

So his lordfhip decreed, with a grave folemn tone,
Decifive and clear, without one if or but-
That whenever the Nofe put his fpectacles on,
By day-light or candle light-Eyes fhould be
fhut.

Wert once a lovely blooming maid!
Infidious, reftlefs, watchful fpider,
Fear no officious damfel's broom;
Extend thy artful fabric wider,

Now, worthy friends, the caufe why we are met Who, if we may believe the fable,
Is in celebration of the day that gave
Immortal Shakspeare to this favour'd ifle,
The most replenished fweet work of nature,
Which from the prime creation e'er the fram'd.
Othou divineft Nature! how thylelfthou blazon't
In this thy fon! form'd in thy prodigality,
To hold thy mirror up, and give the time.
Its very form and preffure! When he speaks
Each aged car plays truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished,
So voluble is his difcourfe-gentle
As Zephyr blowing beneath the violet,
Not wagging its feet head-yet as rough
(His noble blood enchaf'd) as the rude wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
And make him loop to th' vale. 'Tis wonderful

That an invifible inftinct should frame hin
To loyalty, unlearn'd; honour, untaught;
Civility, not feen in others; knowledge
That wildly grows in him, but yields a crop
As if it had been fown. What a piece of work!
How noble in faculty infinite in reafon !
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every God did feem to fet his feal!
Heaven has him now-yer let our idolatrous fancy
Still fanctify his relics, and this day
Stand aye diftinguith'd in the kalendar
To the laft fyllable cf recorded time:
For, if we take him but for all in all,
We ne'er fhall look upon his like again.

$173. On the Invention of Letters.
ELL me what Genius did the art invent,
The lively image of the voice to paint;
Who first the fecret how to colour found,
And to give th pe to reafon, wifely found;
With bodies how to clothe ideas, taught;
And how to draw the picture of a thought:
Who taught the hand to fpeak, the eye to hear
A filent language roving far and near;
Whole fofteit noife outstrips loud thunder's found.
And spreads her accents thro' the world's vaft

round;

A voice heard by the deaf, fpoke by the dumb,
Whofe echo reaches long, long time to come;

And fpread thy banners round my room.
Swept from the rich man's coftly ceiling,
Thou 'rt welcome to my homely roof;
Here mayft thou find a peaceful dwelling,
And undisturb'd attend thy woof:
Whilft I thy wondrous fabric ftare at,
And think on hapless poet's fate;
Like the confin'd to lonely garret,

And rudely banish'd rooms of state.
And as from out thy tortur'd body
Thou draw'ft thy flender ftring with pain;
So does he labour, like a noddy,

To pin materials from his brain:
He for fome fluttering tawdry creature,
That fpreads her charms before his eye;
And that's a conqueft little better
Than thine o'er captive butterfly.
Thus far 'tis plain we both agree,

Perhaps our deaths may better fhew it
'Tis ten to one but penury

Ends both the spider and the poet.

§ 176. The Extent of Cookery. SHENSTONE.

Aliufque et Idem.

WHEN Tom to Cambridge first was fent,
A plain brown bob he wore,

Read much, and look'd as tho' he meant
To be a fop no more.

See him to Lincoln's Inn repair,
His refolution flag;

He cherishes a length of hair,
And tucks it in a bag.

Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the house;
And foon a Judge's rank rewards

His pliant votes and bows.
Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags, give place!

Full-bottoms, come instead!

Which dead men fpeak, as well as thofe alive-Good Loid! to fee the various ways

Tell me what Genius did this art contrive.

Of drefling-a calf's head.

Why fhould fuch labour'd strains

Your formal Mufe engage?

I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fir'd my breaft, or pierc'd my heart,
But figh'd, O fweet Anne Page!
And you, whofe love-fick minds
No medicine can affuage,'
Accufe the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore,

O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!
And you, whofe fouls are held

Like linnets in a cage,
Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,
Attend, and imitate my ftrains:

O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!
And you, who boaft or grieve,

What horrid wars ye wage!

Of wounds receiv'd from many an eye;
Yet mean as I do when I figh,

O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!
Hence every fond conceit

Of thepherd, or of fage!

'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way, Expreffes all you have to fay

O fweet! O fweet Anne Page!

JAGO.

§ 178. Hamlet's Soliloquy imitate..
TO print, or not to print that is the queftion.
Whether 'tis better in a trunk to bury
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous Fancy,
Or fend a well-wrote copy to the prefs,
And, by difclofing, end them. To print, to doubt
No more; and by one act to fay we end
The head-ach, and a thousand natural fhocks
Of fcribbling phrenty- 'tis a confummation
Devoutly to be with'd. To print—to beam
From the fame fhelf with Pope, in calf well bound:
To fleep, perchance, with Quarles-Ay, there's

the rub

$179. To the Memory of George Lewis Langton,
Efq. who died on bis Travels to Rome. SHIPLEY.
LANGTON, dear partner of my foul,

Accept what pious paffion meditates
To grace thy fate. Sad memory,
And grateful love and impotent regret,
Shall wake to paint thy gentle mind,
Thy wife good-nature, friendship delicate
In fecret converfe, native mirth
And fprightly fancy, [weet artificer
Of focial pleafure; nor forgot

The noble thift of knowledge and fair fame
That led thee far through foreign climes
Inquifitive: but chief the pleafant banks
Of Tiber, ever-honour'd ftream,
Detain'd thee vifiting the laft remains
Of ancient art; fair forms exact

In fculpture, columns, and the mould'ring bulk
Of theatres. In deep thought wrapp'd

Of old renown, thy mind furvey'd the fcenes
Delighted where the firft of men

Once dwelt, familiar: Scipio, virtuous chief,
Stern Cato, and the patriot mind

Of faithful Brutus, bett philofopher.

Well did the generous fearch employ

Thy blooming years by virtue crown'd, tho' death
Unfeen opprefs'd thee, far from home,
A helpless ftranger. No familiar voice,
O worthy longest days! for thee fhall flow
No pitying eve, cheer'd thy laft pangs.
The pious folitary tear,

And thoughtful friendship fadden o'er thine urn.

§ 180. The Brewer's Coachman. TAYLOR. HONEST William, an cafy and good-natur'd

fellow,

Would a little too oft get a little too mellow.
Body coachman was he to an eminent brewer-
No better e'er fat on a box, to be fure.
His coach was kept clean, and no mothers or nurfes
Took that care of their babes that he took of his

hories.

He had thefe-ay, and fifty good qualities more;
But the bufines of tippling could ne'er be got o'er:
So his mafter effectually mended the matter,
By hiring a man who drank nothing but water.

Had you drank as he does, you had kept a good

place.

For to what clafs a writer may be doom'd,
When he hath fhuffled off fome paltry stuff,
Mutt give us paufe. There's the refpect that makes
Th' unwilling poet keep his piece nine years.
For who would bear th impatient thirst of fame,Now, William, fays he, you fee the plain cafe;
The pride of conicious merit, and, 'bove all,
The tedious importunity of friends,
Whenas himself might his quietus make
With a bare inkhorn? Who would fardeis bear,
To groan and fweat under a load of wit,
But that the tread of steep Parnaffus' hill
(That undifcover'd country, with whole bays
Few travellers return) puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear to live unknown,
Than run the hazard to be known and damn'd:
Thus critics do make cowards of us all;
And thus the healthful face of many a poem
Is ficklied o'er with a pale manufcript;
And enterprifes of great fire and fpirit
With this regard from Dodfley turn away,
And lofe the rame of Authors.

You'd never have wanted a coachman, I trow.
Drink water! quoth William- had all men done fo,
They're fuakers, like me, whom you load with
reproaches,

That enable you brewers to ride in

your

coaches.

$181. Ode on the Death of Matzel, a favourite
Bullfinch. Addreffed to Philip Stanbope, Ejy.
(natural Son to the Earl of Chesterfield) to whom
the Author had given the Reversion of it when
be left Drefden.
WILLIAMS.

T RY-not, my Stanhope, 'tis in vain,
To top your tears, to hide your pain,

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