But foon difcerning, with fagacious nofe, Why fit'ft thou, thus forlorn and dull, my friend, Hark, how the diftant bells infpire delight!. See, bonfires spangle o'er the veil of night! SQUIRE. What's peace, alas! in foreign parts, to me? See, there's the bill my late damn'd law-fuit cost! PARSON. I must confefs the times are bad, indeed! When all church-power is thought to make men flaves, SQUIRE. } Come, preach no more, but drink and hold your tongue. I'm for the church: but think the parfons wrong. PAR * PARSON. See there! Free-thinking now so rank is grown, Squires, and their tenants too, prophane as lords, Come, drink! SQUIRE. PARSON, Here's to you, then; to church and king, SQUIRE. Here's church and king; I hate the glass should stand; PARSON. Heaven with new plagues will scourge this finful nation, Unless we foon repeal the toleration, And to the church restore the convocation. SQUIRE. Plagues we should feel fufficient, on my word, Starv'd by two houses, prieft-rid by a third. For better days we lately had a chance, Had not the honeft Plaids been trick'd by France. Is not most gracious George our faith's defender? Preferment, I fuppofe, is what you mean; My reverend neighbour Squab being like to die, PARSON. Have you not fwore, that I fhould Squab fucceed? Think how for this I taught your fons to read; How How oft discover'd pufs on new-plough'd land; When I could scarcely go, nor could your worship ftand. SQUIRE. 'Twas yours, had you been honeft, wife, or civil; Now e'en go court the bishops-or the devil. PARSON. If I meant any thing, now let me die ; I am, you know, a right true-hearted Tory, SQUIRE. Thou art an honeft dog, that's truth, indeed; 'Tis thine; but first, a bumper to the best. PARSON. Most noble squire, more generous than your wine, How pleafing's the condition you affign! Give me the sparkling glass, and here, d'ye fee, With joy I drink it on my bended knee. Great Queen +! who governest this earthly ball, Then bids the fnaky treffes cease to hiss, And gives them peace again-nay, giv'ft us this; SQUIRE, rubbing his hands. } THE THE POOR MAN'S PRAYER. WRITTEN IN M DCC LXVI. ADDRESSED TO THE EARL OF CHATHAM. A BY DR. ROBERTS. MIDST the more important toils of state, O Chatham! nurs'd in ancient Virtue's lore, Ah, me! how blefs'd was once a peafant's life! I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasures rov'd, bed. To gild her worth, I afk'd no wealthy power, And fhe, the faithful partner of my care, When ruddy evening ftreak'd the western sky, Look'd tow'rds the uplands, if her mate was there, Or thro' the beech-wood caft an anxious eye: Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board Ere fimple Nature was debauch'd by Art; While I, contented with my homely chear, But ah! how chang'd the fcene! On the cold ftones My faithful wife, with ever-ftreaming eyes, Dear tender pledges of my honeft love, On that bare bed behold your brother lie: Three tedious days with pinching want hé ftrove, The fourth, I faw the helpless cherub die. Nor long fhall ye remain. With vifage four Bids me and mine o'er barren mountains roam. Yet. |