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Though Envy, Detraction, and Jealousy rage,
Still Fox thines the glory and pride of his age :
Success and fair Fome all his countels attend;
Hiš Prince's best subject, his country's best friend.
Then let us, unanimous, join to support
The man who is honest, in spite of the Court;
And, as freemen deferving in freedom to live,
ur hearts, hands, and voices, to Fox let us give.
“ He's loyal, he's noble, he's chosen to be

The Champion of Britain, whilft Britain is free."

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against the Duchess of Devonshire are so truly wretched, that
degree of pity with the indignation we naturally feel against

Apostrophe, from some lines addressed to her Grase "about
Calon very applicable :

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By T. WARWICK, LL. B.
TO paint the morn diffus'd on yonder cheek,

And catch the noon-beam issuing from that eye,

Or with that form to make the marble vie,
Such let a Reynolds or a Wilton seek:
Powerless, whate’er she feel, their force to speak,

The wond'ring Mufe shall wait in silence by,

Till either art, with a defponding figh,
Resign the steel, and own the pencil weak.
But should Heaven will fome forming hand divine
To bid one finish'd piece at length outshine

The worship'd star of Medicean fame,
Still may the poet with reflected pride,
By beauty less than virtue dignify'd,

La social strains a CAVENDISHI proclaim.

3 S

STANZAS

hough

Each pretty young girl that works hard for her bread,
Sir Cecil would tax, lay a fine on her head;
The old he wou'd starvé, the young turn out of doors,
Then our soldiers must beg, and our daughters be whores.

CHORU S.
So let Fox be your choice, &c.
See Devonshire's Duchefs so beauteous appear,
Affertress of freedom, her sons for to cheer,
To support your just rights to the Huftings repair,
And Liberty's Son shall be plac'd in the chair.

CHORU S.
So let Fox be your choice, &c.

The CHAMPION of FREEDOM.
Tune-The Foes of Old England, France, Holland, and Spain.
THE Foes of Old England, contriving of late,
And secretly plotting to ruin the State,
Prerogative's banner, insidious, unfurld,
And at Freedom, fair Freedom, their vengeance they hurld:
Britannia then rose from her white rocky throne,
In a bright azure robe the magnificent sone;
She call'd her attendants, and bade them repair
With speed to the Senate, her Champion was there.

"He's loyal, he's noble, he's chosen by me,

“ My rights to protect, and my sons to keep free.” Arouz'd at the message, brave Fox rear'd bis head, “ Yes! I'll be the Champion of Freedom,” he said ; “ The Cause of the People I'll ever maintain ; os Devoted to that, I will breathe ev'ry vein; “ Like Hampden, like Sydney, with firmness oppose “ Each art and contrivance of Liberty's foes.” Th'attendants reported the words that he laid, And great were the plaudits Britannia then paid.

« He's loyal, he's noble, he's chosen by me,

My rights to protect, and my sons to keep free.”
The secret conspirators, feeling his rage,
No longer with openness dare to engage,
But, dreading his talents much more than a sword,
Shrink back in dismay from his powerful word.
Integrity sways him; nor favour nor place
Can e'er make him change or his country disgrace;
But, firm and determin' in Liberty's cause,
With courage he guards all our rights and our laws.

" He's loyal, he's noble, he's chosen to be
“ The Champion of Britain, whilft Britain is free.”.

Though

Though Envy, Detrnilion, and Jealousy rage,
Still Fox shines the glory and pride of his age:
Success and fair Fame all his countels attend;
Hiš Prince's best fubjeci, his country's best friend.
Then let us, unanimous, join to support
The man who is honest, in spite of the Court;
And, as freemen deferving in freedom to live,
Our hearts, hands, and voices, to Fox let us give.

“ He's loyal, he's noble, he's chosen to be
The Champion of Britain, whilst Britain is free.”

Tbe attempts of ribaldry againsi the Duchess of Devonshire are so truly wretched, that

one cannot help mixing a degree of pity with the indignation we naturally feel against the writers. The following Apostrophe, from some lines addressed to her Grace about four years since, are at this season very applicable :

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By T. WARWICK, LL. B.
TO paint the morn diffus'd on yonder cheek,

And catch the noon-beain issuing from that eye,

Or with that form to make the marble vie,
Such let a Reynolds or a Wilton seek:
Powerless, whate'er she feel, their force to speak,

The wond'ring Mule shall wait in silence by,

Tal either art, with a defponding figh,
Resign the steel, and own the pencil weak.
But should Heaven will some forming hand divine
To bid one finish'd piece at length outshine

The worship'd star of Medicean fáme,
Still may the poet with reflected pride,
By beauty less than virtue dignify’d,

In social strains a CAVENDISHI proclaim.

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S T A N Z A S to LADY.
WITH A PRESENT OF A Fox's BRUSH.
RIBBANDS, till now, have e'er prevaild,

To show each female's free Election,
The brush, on front of hat reveald,

Evinces now the heart's direction.
Farewell the loom, this plume employ,

Which nature's finer hand has wove;
And may the einblematic toy

Successful as your wishes prove.

To her Grace of D-
WITH beauteous twins, sweet looks inspiring love,
And charms, which might the hearts of Cyclops move :
When great Latona, good and fair like you,
Her thirit to quench, to the clear waters drew.
A rustic band, not fit on earth to dwell,
With favage rage the goddess did repel;
But Jove, incens'd, prone to avenge the wrong,
In fens to croak, quick doom'd the impious throng.

So when of late, to serve an injur'd friend,
From your bright sphere you vouchlaf'd to descend,
Nor bluth'd to ask a boon with that sweet voice,
Which ever makes the suppliant rejoice,
Monsters, 'tis faid, surely the moit abject,
Did offer insult, where they ow'd respect !
How comes it, then, the gods their ire suppress’d,
Why from man's form fuch miscreants not divest
The reafon's plain, fince 'tis an obvious truth,
Each guilty wretch is far below the brute.

T*****X,

A LYRIC LOVE EPISTLE,

(Found in a CONVENT at PARIS.)

Tune-Oh! my kitten, my kitten.
OH! my P-y, my P-y,

And oh! my Py, my dear-a,
Such a fine husband as I
You can't find far or near-a.

Though the taxes go up, up, up,
And the funds all go down, down, down-a,

And the rats they run backward and forward,
And my head it runs round, round, round-a.

Thor

Tho' Sir Cecil begins to look queer,

And once more thinks of turning his coat,
Since he's got no more guards in his rear,
And his failors, alas! cannot vote.

And tho' taxes, &c.
Yet soon on my foes I shall thunder-

The Whigs shall all fhrink from my rage,
And the people shall view us with wonder,
When our Cabinets all come of age.

Tho' the taxes, &c.
I can talk of my candour and truth,

With Jack Ws and D-s at my heels;
'Twas the leaft of the tricks of my youth,
To make T purloin his own seals.

Tho' the taxes, &c.
For the B-ps I've canting and pray’rs

For the people I've nonsense and beer;
Oh! when I climb'd up the Back Stairs,
I took the right sow by the ear.

Tho' the taxes, &c.
Then haste to become a fine bride,

From the gloom of a Convent emerging ;
In me you may safely confide,
For 1, like yourself, am a virgin !

Now the taxes, &c.

I M P R O M Ρ Τ U,
By one of the new L-Ds of the TY, being his first attempt at poetry.

Tune,~Little Jack Horner.
WHILE little W-11 P-tt,

Sat picking a bit,
The Grocers stood staring by;

He put in his thumb,

And pulld out a plumb,
Oh! what a good boy was I!

A S O N G.

Tune-Get ye gone raw head and bloody bones
OH Sir Cecil, Sir Cecil,

And oh Sir Cecil, my deary,
What a sad thing it is,

That Charly will not fear ye;

3 S 2

Tho'

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