For every fugitive: and when thou thus
Shalt ftand impleaded at the high tribunal
Of hood-wink'd Justice, who fhall tell thy audit!
Then stay the present inftant, dear Horatio;

Imprint the marks of wifdom on its wings.

'Tis of more worth than kingdoms! far more precious Than all the crimson treasures of life's fountain.

Oh! let it not elude thy grafp, but like

The good old patriarch upon record,

Hold the fleet angel faft, until he bless thee.

On Lord COBHAM's Gardens.

By the Same.

T puzzles much the fages' brains,

IT

Where Eden stood of yore;

Some place it in Arabia's plains,

Some fay, it is no more.

But Cobham can these tales confute,

As all the curious know;

For he has prov'd beyond dispute,

That paradife is STOW.

Το

FA

By the Same.

AIREST flow'r, all flow'rs excelling,
Which in Eden's garden grew;

Flow'rs of Eve's imbower'd dwelling,
Are, my Fair-one, types of you.
Mark, my Polly, how the rofes

Emulate thy damask cheek;

How the bud its fweets difclofes,

Buds thy opening bloom befpeak.
Lilies are, by plain direction,

Emblems of a double kind;

;

Emblems of thy fair complexion,
Emblems of thy fairer mind.
But, dear girl, both flow'rs and beauty
Bloffom, fade, and die away;

Then pursue good sense and duty,
Evergreens, that ne'er decay.

Alluding to Milton's defcription of Eve's bower.

Father

Father FRANCIS's Prayer.

Written in Lord WESTMORLAND'S Hermitage.

E gay attire, ne marble hall,

NE

Ne arched roof, ne pictur'd wall;
Ne cook of Fraunce, ne dainty board,
Bestow'd with pypes of perigord;
Ne power, ne fuch like idle fancies,
Sweet Agnes grant to father Francis ;
Let me ne more myself deceive;
Ne more regret the toys I leave;
The world I quit, the proud, the vain,
Corruption's and Ambition's train;
But not the good, perdie nor fair,
'Gainst them I make ne vow, ne pray'r;
But such aye welcome to my cell,

And oft, not always, with me dwell;
Then caft, fweet Saint, a circle round,
And blefs from fools this holy ground;
From all the foes to worth and truth,
From wanton old, and homely youth;

The gravely dull, and pertly gay,
Oh banish these; and be my fay,
Right well I ween that in this age,
Mine house shall prove an hermitage.

An Inscription on the Cell.

Beneath these moss-grown roots, this ruftic cell,
Truth, Liberty, Content, fequefter'd dwell;
Say you, who dare our hermitage disdain,
What drawing-room can boast so fair a train?

An Inscription in the Cell.

Sweet bird that fing'ft on yonder spray,
Purfue unharm'd thy fylvan lay;

While I beneath this breezy shade,

In peace repose my careless head;

And joining thy enraptur'd fong,
Inftruct the world-enamour'd throng,
That the contented harmless breaft
In folitude itself is bleft.

Το

To the Right Hon. HENRY PELHAM, Esq.

TH

HE humble Petition of the worshipful company of Poets and News-writers,

SHEWETH,

THAT your honour's petitioners (dealers in rhymes, And writers of scandal, for mending the times) By loffes in bus'nefs, and England's well-doing, Are funk in their credit, and verging on ruin. That these their misfortunes, they humbly conceive, Arife not from dulnefs, as fome folks believe, But from rubs in their

way, that your honour has laid, And want of materials to carry on trade.

That they always had form'd high conceits of their use, And meant their last breath should go out in abuse; But now (and they speak it with forrow and tears) Since your honour has fate at the helm of affairs, No party will join 'em, no faction invite

To heed what they fay, or to read what they write; Sedition, and Tumult, and Discord are fled,

And Slander scarce ventures to lift up her head

VOL. IV.

T

In