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I. 3.

On this terrestrial ball

The tyrant Fashion governs all.

She, fickle Goddess, whom, in days of yore,
The ideot Moria, on the banks of Seine,
Unto an antic fool, hight Andrew, bore,
Long fhe paid him with disdain,

And long his pangs in filence he conceal'd:
At length, in happy hour, his love-fick pain
On thy bleft calends, April, he reveal'd.
From their embraces fprung,

Ever changing, ever ranging;
Fashion, Goddess ever young,

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II. 1.

Perch'd on the dubious height, fhe loves to ride

Upon a weather-cock, aftride.

Each blaft that blows, around she goes,

While nodding o'er her creft,

Emblem of her magick pow'r.

The light Cameleon ftands.confest.
Changing its hues a thousand times an hour.
And in a veft is fhe array'd,

Of many a dancing moon-beam made,
Nor zonelefs is her waift:

But fair and beautiful, I ween,

As the ceftos-cin&tur'd Queen,

Is with the rainbow's fhadowy girdle brac❜d.

She

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She bids purfue the fav'rite road
Of lofty cloud-capt ode.

Meantime each Bard, with eager fpeed,

Vaults on the Pegafean steed:

Yet not that Pegafus of yore,

Which th' illuftrious Pindar bore,

But one of nobler breed.

High blood and youth his lufty veins infpire,
From Tottipontimoy he came,

Who knows not, Tottipontimoy, thy name? The bloody-fhoulder'd Arab was his fire. * His Whitenofe. He on fam'd Doncaftria's plains Refign'd his fated breath:

In vain for life the ftruggling courfer ftrains.

Ah! who can run the race with Death? The tyrant's speed, or man or steed,

Strives all in vain to fly.

He leads the chace, he wins the race,

We stumble, fall and die.

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*The author is either mistaken in this place, ⚫ or has elfe indulged himself in a very unwarrantable poetical licence. Whitenose was not the Sire, but the Son, of the Godolphin Arabian.

See my Calendar. HEBER.

II. 3.

Third from Whiterofe fprings

Pegasus with eagle wings:

Light o'er the plain, as dancing cork, With many a bound he beats the ground,

While all the Turf with acclamation rings.

He won Northampton, Lincoln, Oxford, York:

He too Newmarket won.

There Granta's Son

Seiz'd on the Steed;

And thence him led (fo Fate decreed)

To where old Cam, renown'd in Poet's fong,

With his dark, and inky waves

Either bank in filence laves,

Winding flow his fluggish ftreams along.

What

III, 1.

What tripling neat, of vifage fweet,

In trimmest guise array'd,

First the neighing steed affay'd?
His hand a taper switch adorns, his heel
Sparkles refulgent with elastic steel:
The whiles he wins his whiffling way.

Prancing, ambling round and round,

By hill, and dale, and mead, and greenfwerd gay: Till, fated with the pleafing ride,

From the lofty Steed difmounting,

He lies along, enwrapt in conscious pride, By gurgling rill or crystal fountain,

Lo!

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