I

The Thief.

TELL, with equal truth and grief,
That little Kitt`s an arrant thief;
Before the urchin well could go,
She ftole the whitenefs of the fnow;
And more that whiteness to adorn,
She ftole the blushes of the morn;
Stole all the foftnefs Æther pours
On primrose buds, in vernal show'rs.

There's no repeating all her wiles:
She ftole the Graces' winning (miles;
'Twas quickly feen fhe robb'd the sky,
To plant a ftar in either eye;
She pilfer'd orient pearl for teeth,
And tole the cow's ambrofial breath;
The cherry, steep'd in morning dew,
Gave moisture to her lips, and hue.

There were her infant fpoils; a store
To which, in time, fhe added more:
At twelve she stole from Cyprus' Queen
Her air and love-commanding mien;
Stole Juno's dignity; and stole,
From Pallas, fenfe to charm the foul;
She fung-amaz'd the Syrens heard,
And to affert their voice appear'd;
She play'd-the mufes from their hill
Wonder'd who thus had ftole their skill;
Apollo's wit was next her prey,

And then the beams that light the day;
While Jove, her pilfering thefts to crown,
Pronounc'd these beauties all her own,
Pardon'd her crimes, and prais'd her art;
And t' other day the ftole-my heart.
Cupid! if lovers are thy care,
Revenge thy votary on the fair;
Do juftice on her ftolen charms,
And let her prison be—my arms.

By SHAKSPEARE.

Beauty's Value. BEAUTY is but a vain, a fleeting good, A fhining glofs that fadeth fuddenly; A flow'r that dies when almoft in the bud, A brittle glass that breaketh prefently. A fleeting good, a glofs, a glass, a flow'r, Loft, faded, broken, dead, within an hour. As goods when loft we know are seldom found, As fading glofs no rubbing can excite; As flow'rs when dead are trampled on the ground, As broken glafs no cement can unite; So beauty, blemish'd once, is ever loft, In fpite of phyfic, painting, pains, and coft.

On the frequent Defeats of the French Army in the laft War. An Epigram.

THE toaft of each Briton in war's dread alarms, O'er bottle or bowl, is fuccefs to our arms; Attack'd, put to flight, and foon forc'd from each trench,

Succefs to our legs is the toast of the French.

A Sailor having been fentenced to the Cat of Nine Tails, when tied ready for Punishment, spoke the following Lines to his Commander, who bad an Averfion to a Cat.

BY your honour's command, an example I stand
Of your juftice to all the fhip's crew;
I am hamper'd and stript, and if I am whipt,
'Tis no more than I own is my due.
In this fcurvy condition, I humbly petition
To offer fome lines to your eye:
Merry Ton by fuch trafh once avoided the lash,
And, if fate and you please, fo may 1.

There is nothing you hate, I 'm inform'd, like a

On a certain Lady's Study.

TO Chloe's ftudy fhall we go,

(For ladies have their ftudies now) O what a fplendid fight is there! 'Twould make the dulleft hermit ftare; There ftand, all rang'd in proud array, Each French romance, and modern play; Love's magazine of flames and darts, Whole hiftories of eyes and hearts! But, Oview well the outward fcene, You'll never need to look within; What Chloe loves the plainly fhews, For, lo! her very books are beaus.

ftung,

Whofe teeth are fharp arrows, a razor her tongue?
The poifon of afps her vivid lip loads,

The rattle of frakes with the fpittle of toads;
Her throat is an open fepulchre; her legs
Set hatching of vipers, and cockatrice eggs;
Her fting is a fcorpion's; like hyena fhe 'll cry;
With the ear of an adder, a bafilifk's eye;
The mouth of a monkey, the hug of a bear,
The head of a parrot, the chat of a ħare;
The wing of a magpye, the fnout of a hog,
The feet of a mole, and the tail of a dog;
Her claw is a tyger's, her forehead is brass,
With the hifs of a goose, and the bray of an ass.

On a Covetous old Parfon.

CRIES Spintext, in fpleen, "This public dona

tion Methinks favours much of vain oftentation;

G-d blefs me! five pounds! Why the fum is immenfe !

And for pity, mere pity! 'tis fhow and pretence.
When I do an alms, fame's trumpet ne'er blows,
What my right hand is doing, my left never knows;
All my gifts I bestow in fo private a way,
That when, how, or where, no mortal can fay."
Spintext, it is true, has fuch art to conceal 'em,
That his parish ne'er fee, nor the poor never feel
'em,
['em.
And thus he makes fure that none fhall reveal

Epigram to a pretended Friend, and real Enemy.
THY hefitating tongue, and doubtful face,

Shew all thy kindness to be mere grimace. Throw off the mask; at once be foe or friend; 'Tis bafe to footh, when malice is the end; The rock that 's feen gives the poor failor dread, But double terror that which hides its head.

On a Tombstone in Effex.

HERE lies the man Richard,

And Mary his wife; Their furname was Prichard; They liv'd without ftrife; And the reafon was plainThey abounded in riches; They nor care had nor pain,

And the wife WORE THE BREECHES.

To Lady Mary Wortley Montague. By Mr. POPE. IN beauty or wit, no mortal as yet

To question your empire Kas dar'd; But men of difcerning have thought that in learning

To yield to a Lady was hard.
Impertinent fchools, with mufty dull rules,
Have reading to females denied;
So Papifts refufe the Bible to use,

Left flocks fhould be wife as their guide.

'Twas a woman at firft (indeed the was curft) In knowledge that tafted delight; And fages agree, the laws fhould decree

To the first of poffeffors the right. Then bravely, fair dame, refume the old claim, Which to your whole fex does belong; And let men receive from a fecond bright EVE The knowledge of right and of wrong. But if the first Eve hard doom did receive, When only one apple had the;

What punishment new fhall be found out for you, Who, tafting, have robb'd the whole tree?

Could I but guess, I do proteft,

I fpeak it not to flatter;

Of all the women in the world
I never would come at her.
Her body is bestowed well,

A handfome grave doth hide her;
And fure, her foul is not in hell-
The devil would ne'er abide her.
I rather think the 's foar'd aloft;
For in the laft great thunder
Methought I heard her very voice
Rending the clouds in funder.

The Rofe. By Mr. PHILIPS. THE rofe's age is but a day,

Its bloom the pledge of its decay;
Sweet in fcent, in colour bright,
It blows at morn, and fades at night.

Imitated by Dr. SWIFT.
My age is not a moment's stay,
My birth the fame with my decay;
I favour ill; no colour know;
And fade the inftant that i blow.

AM monarch of all I furvey, My right there is none to difpute, From the centre all round to the fea, I am lord of the fowl and the brute. O folitude where are the charms

That fages have feen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place. am out of humanity's reach,

I

I must finish my journey alone, Never hear the fweet mufic of fpeech, I ftart at the found of my own. The beafts that roam over the plain, My form with indifference fee; They are fo unacquainted with man, Their tamenefs is fhocking to me. Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestow'd upon man, O had I the wings of a dove, How foon would 1 tafte you again! My forrows I then might affuage In the ways of religion and truth, Might learn from the wifdom of age, And be cheer'd by the fallies of youth, Religion! what treasure untold

Refides in that heavenly word! More precious than filver and gold, Or all that this earth can afford. But the found of the church-going bell Thefe valleys and rocks never heard, Ne'er figh'd at the found of a knell,

Or fmil'd when a fabbath appear'd. Ye winds that have made me your fport, Convey to this defolate fhore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I thall vifit no more.

M

My friends do they now and then fend
A with or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to fee. How fleet is a glance of the mind !-Compar'd with the speed of its flight, The tempeft itfelf lags behind,

And the fwift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I feem to be there; But, alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the fea-fowl is gone to her neft,
The beaft is laid down in his lair,
Ev'n here is a season of reft,

And I to my cabin repair.
There is mercy in every place,
And mercy, encouraging thought!
Gives even affliction a grace,
And reconciles man to his lot..

Ode to Peace.

COWPER.

COME, peace of mind, delightful gueft!
Return, and make thy downy neit
Once more in this fad heart:
Nor riches I nor pow'r purfue,
Nor hold forbidden joys in view,

We therefore need not part.

Where wilt thou dwell, if not with me,
From av'rice and ambition free,

And pleasure's fatal wiles?
For whom, alas! dost thou prepare
The fweets that I was wont to fhare-
The banquet of thy fmiles?
The great, the gay, fhall they partake
The heaven that thou alone canft make?
And wilt thou quit the ftream
That murmurs through the dewy mead,
The grove and the fequefter'd shed,

To be a guest with them? For thee I panted, thee I priz'd, For thee I gladly facrific'd Whate'er I lov'd before;

And fhall I fee thee ftart away,

And helpless, hopeless, hear thee fay-
Farewel! we meet no more?

'Tis here the folly of the wife

Through all his art we view;
And while his tongue the charge denies,
His confcience owns it true.
Bound on a voyage of awful length,

And dangers little known,
A ftranger to fuperior strength,
Man vainly trufts his own.

But cars alone can ne'er prevail
To reach the diftant coaft;

The breath of heaven muft fwell the fail,
Or all the toil is loft.

On obferving fowe Names of uttle Note recorded in
the Biographia Britannica. CowFER.
FOND attempt to give a deathless lot
To names ignoble. born to be forgot!
In vain recorded in hiftoric page,
They court the notice of a future age:
Thofe twinkling tiny luftres of the land
Drop one by one from fame's neglecting hand!
Lethæan gulphs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion foon abforbs them all.

So when a child, as playful children use,
Has burnt to tinder a ftale laft year's news,
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire,
There goes my lady, and there goes the 'fquire;
There goes the parfon, O illuftrious spark !
And there, scarce lefs illuftrious, goes the clerk.

The Nightingale and Glow-Worm. CowPER. A Nightingale, that all day long

Nor

Had cheer'd the village with his song, yet at eve his note fufpended, Nor yet when even-tide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite; When, looking eagerly around, He fpred far off, upon the ground, A fomething fhining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark ↑ So, ftooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop; The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent:

Did you admire my lamp, quoth hẹ, As much as I your minstrelly, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your fong; For 'twas the felf-fame Pow'r divine Taught you to fing, and me to thine, That you with mufic, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night, The fongfter heard his fhort oration, And, warbling out his approbation, Releas'd him, as my story tells, And found a fupper fomewhere else. Hence jarring fe&taries may learn Their real int'reft to difcern: That brother fhould not war with brother, And worry and devour each other, But fing and fhine by fweet confent, Till life's poor tranfient night is spent,

Refpecting

Refpecting in each other's cafe The gifts of nature and of

grace.

Thofe Chriftians beft delerve the name
Who ftudioully make peace their aim;
Peace, both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.

On a Goldfinch ftarved to Death in his Cage.

TIME was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,
My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on ev'ry fpray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,
My ftrains for ever new.
But gaudy plumage, iprightly train,
And form genteel, were all in vain,
And of a tranfient date;

Cow PER.

For caught and cag'd, and starv'd to death, In dying fighs my little breath

Soon pais'd the wiry grate.

Thanks, gentle fwain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual clofe

And cure of ev'ry ili !
More cruelty could none exprefs;
And I, if you had fhewn me lefs,
Had been your prifoner ftill. -

The Pine-apple and the Bee.
THE pine-apples in triple row

Were basking hot and all in blow:
A bee of moft difcerning tafte
Perceiv'd the fragrance as he pafs'd.
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And fearch'd for crannies in the frame;
Urg'd his attempt on ev'ry fide,
To ev'ry pane his trunk applied;
But ftill in vain, the frame was tight,
And only pervious to the light.
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimm'd his flight another way.
Methinks, I faid, in thee I find
The fin and madness of mankind;
To joys forbidden man afpires,
Confumes his foul with vain defires;
Folly the fpring of his pursuit,
And difappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles as the paffes

The nymph between two chariot-glaffes,
Shes is the pine-apple, and he
The filly unfuccessful bee.

The maid who views with penfive air

The fhow-glafs fraught with glitt'ring ware,
Secs watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But fighs at thought of empty pockets;
Like thing her appetite is keen,
But, ah, the cruei glafs between !

Our dear delights are often fuch,
Expos'd to view, but not to touch:
The fight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine-apples in frames.
With hopeless with one looks and lingers,
One breaks the glafs, and cuts his fingers;
But they whom truth and wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

The Poet, the Oyfter, and Senfitive Plant.
COWPER.

AN Oyfter caft upon the fhore

Was heard, though never neard before,
Complaining in a tpecch well worded,
And worthy thus to be recorded:

Ah, hapless wretch condemn'd to dwell
For ever in my native shell,

Ordain'd to move when others please,
Not for my own content or cafe,
But tofs'd and buffeted about,
Now in the water, and now out.
"Twere better to be born a ftone
Of ruder shape and feeling none,
Than with a tenderness like mine,
And fenfibility fo fine:

I envy that unfeeling shrub,
Faft-rooted against ev'ry rub.

The plant he meant grew not far off,
And felt the fneer with fcorn enough;
Was hurt, disgusted, mortified,
And with afperity replied.

When, cry the botanists, and ftare,
Did plants call'd fenfitive grow there?
No matter when-a poet's mufe is
To make them grow just where the chooses.
You fhapeless nothing in a dish,
You that are but almost a fish,
I fcorn your coarse infinuation,
And have moft plentiful occafion
To with myself the rock I view,
Or fuch another dolt as you.
For many a grave and learned clerk,
And many a gay unletter'd fpark,
With curious touch examines me,
If I can feel as well as he;

And when I bend, retire, and fhrink,
Says-Well, 'tis more than one would think.
Thus life is fpent, O fie upon 't

In being touch'd, and crying, Don't!
A poet, in his evening walk,
O'erheard and check'd this idle talk.
And your fine fenfe, he said, and yours,
Whatever evil it endures,

Deferves not, if fo foon offended,
Much to be pitied or commended.
Difputes, though fhort, are far too long,
Where both alike are in the wrong;
Your feelings, in their full amount,
Are all upon your own account.

You in your grotto-work inclos'd
Complain of being thus expos'd,
Yet nothing feel in that rough coat,
Save when the knife is at your throat,
Wherever driven by wind or tide,
Exempt from ev'ry ill befide.

And as for you, my Lady Squeamish,
Who reckon ev'ry touch a blemish,
If all the plants that can be found
Embellishing the scene around

Should droop and wither where they grow,
You would not feel at all, not you.
The nobleft minds their virtue prove
By pity, fympathy, and love.