The fawning cats compaffionate his cafe,
And purr around, and gently lick his face:

To all his 'plaints the fleeping curs reply,
And with hoarse snorings imitate a figh.
Such gloomy scenes with lovers' minds agree,
And folitude to them is best fociety.

Cou'd I (he cry'd) exprefs, how bright a grace Adorns thy morning hands, and well-wafh'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,
Whene'er fhe fets the pot upon the fire!

Her hands out-fhine the fire, and redder things;
Her eyes are blacker than the pot fhe brings.

But fure no chamber-damfel can compare,
When in meridian luftre fhines my fair,
When warm'd with dinner's toil, in pearly rills,
Adown her goodly cheek the fwcat diftills.

Oh! how I long, how ardently defire,

To view thofe rofy fingers ftrike the lyre!
For late, when bees to change their climes began,
How did I fee 'em thrum the frying-pan!

With

With her! I fhou'd not envy G- his queen,
Tho' fhe in royal grandeur deck'd be feen:

Whilft rags, juft fever'd from my fair-one's gown,
In ruffet pomp, and greafy pride hang down.

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 raise those fnoring devils up."

Then, full of wrath, fhe kick'd each lazy brute, Alas! I envy'd even that salute :

'Twas fure misplac'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, Who like the fair can that machine command? O may'st thou ne'er by EoLus be seen,

For he wou'd fure demand thee for his queen.

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 swell 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 she 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 fwain,
Revealing to the fable walls his pain:

But nymphs are free with those they fhou'd deny;
To thofe, they love, more exquifitely coy!

Now chirping crickets raise their tinkling voice,
The lambent flames in languid ftreams arise,
And smoke in azure folds evaporates and dies.

The

The RAPE of the TRAP.

"T

A BALLAD, 1737.

WAS in a land of learning,
The mufes fav'rite city,

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 less 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 scarce was ended!

He

He fpar'd not ev'n heroics,
On which we poets pride us;
And wou'd make no more

Of king ARTHUR'S *, by the score
Than-all the world befide does.

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