The fawning cats compaffionate his cafe, To all his 'plaints the fleeping curs reply, Cou'd I (he cry'd) express, how bright a grace Adorns thy morning hands, and well-wash'd face; Thou wou'dft, COLEMIRA, grant what I implore, And yield me love, or wash thy face no more. Ah! who can fee, and feeing, not admire, But fure no chamber-damfel can compare, Oh how I long, how ardently defire, To view thofe rofy fingers ftrike the lyre ! With With her! I fhou'd not envy G-— his queen, Ah! how it does my drooping heart rejoice, When in the hall I hear thy mellow voice! How wou'd that voice exceed the village-bell; Wou'dft thou but fing, "I like thee paffing well!" When from the hearth fhe bade the pointers go, How foft! how eafy did her accents flow! "Get out, fhe cry'd, when ftrangers come to fup, "One ne'er can raife thofe fnoring devils up." Then, full of wrath, she kick'd each lazy brute, Alas! I envy'd even that falute: 'Twas fure mifplac'd,-SHOCK faid, or feem'd to fay, He had as lief, I had the kick, as they. If the the mystic bellows take in hand, But fhou'd the flame this rougher aid refuse, And only gentler med'cines be of use; With full-blown cheeks fhe ends the doubtful ftrife, Foments the infant flame, and puffs it into life. Such arts, as these, exalt the drooping fire, But in my breast a fiercer flame inspire: I burn! I burn! O! give thy puffing o'er, And fwell thy cheeks, and pout thy lips no more! With all her haughty looks, the time I've seen; When this proud damfel has more humble been, When with nice airs fhe hoift the pan-cake round, And dropt it, hapless fair! upon the ground. Look, with what charming grace! what winning tricks! The artful charmer rubs the candlesticks! So bright she makes the candlesticks fhe handles, Oft have I said,—there were no need of candles. But thou, my fair! who never wou'dst approve, Or hear, the tender ftory of my love; Or mind, how burns my raging breast,—a buttonPerhaps art dreaming of a breast of mutton. Thus faid, and wept the fad defponding swain, But nymphs are free with those they shou'd deny; Now chirping crickets raife their tinkling voice, } The The RAPE of the TRAP. "T A BALLAD, 1737. WAS in a land of learning, Such pranks of late Were play'd by a rat, As-tempt one to be witty. All in a college-study, Where books were in great plenty; This rat wou'd devour More fenfe in an hour, Than I cou'd write-in twenty. Corporeal food, 'tis granted, Serves vermin lefs refin'd, Sir; But this, a rat of taste, All other rats furpass'd; And he prey'd on the food of the mind, Sir; His breakfast, half the morning, He conftantly attended; And when the bell rung For ev❜ning-fong, His dinner fcarce was ended! Such He spar'd not ev'n heroics, Of king ARTHUR'S*, by the score In books of geo-graphy, He made the maps to flutter: A river or a fea Was to him a difh of tea; And a kingdom, bread and butter. But if fome mawkish potion Might chance to over-dofe him, To check its rage, He took a page Of logick-to compofe him A trap, in hafte and anger, Was bought, you need not doubt on't; And, fuch was the gin, Were a lion once got in, He cou'd not, I think, get out on't. With cheese, not books, 'twas baited, The fact I'll not belye it Since none-I tell you that Whether fcholar or rat, Minds books, when he has other diet. * By BLACKMORE. But |