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SIRS, it may happen, by the grace of God,

That I, Great Peter, one day come before ye,

To answer to the man of wig, for ode,

Full of fublimity, and pleafant ftory.

Yes, it may fo fall out that lofty men,

Dundas, and Richmond, Hawkfb'ry, Portland, Pitt, May wish to cut the nib of Peter's pen,

And, cruel, draw the holders of his wit;

Nay, Dame Injuftice in their cause engage,
To clap the gentle poet in a cage;
And fhould a grimly judge for death harangue,
Don't let the poet of the people hang.

What are my crimes? A poor tame cur am I,

Though fome will fwear I've fnapp'd them by the heels; A puppy's pinch, that's all, I don't deny;

But Lord! how fenfibly a great man feels!

A harmless joke, at times, on kings and queens;
A little joke on lofty earls and lords;
Smiles at the fplendid homage of court scenes,
The modes, the manners, fentiments, and words:

A joke on Marg'ret Nicholfon's mad knights;
A joke upon the fhave of cooks at court,
Charms the fair mufe, and eke the world delights;
A pretty piece of inoffenfive fport.

Lo, in a little inoffenfive fmile,

There lurks no lever to o'erturn the state,
And king, and parliament! intention vile!
And hurl the queen of nations to her fate.

No gunpowder my modeft garrets hold,
Dark-lanterns, blunderbuffes, mafks, and matches;
Few words my fimple furniture unfold;

A bed, a fool, à rufty coat in patches.

Carpets, nor chandeliers fo bright, are mine;
Nor mirrors, ogling vanity to pleafe;
Spaniels, nor lap-dogs, with their furs fo fine;
Alas! my little livestock are--my fleas!




From a MS. of the Time of Queen Elizabeth, in the British Museum. (Vefpafian, A. 25.)

YLL the cuppe, Phylyppe, and let us drynke a drame,

Ons or twyfe abowte the howfe and leave where we began.

I drynke to yow, fweteharte, foo mutch as here is in,

Defyeringe yow to followe me, and doo as I begyn:

And yf yow will not pledge [me], yow fhall bere the blame,
I drynke to yow with all my harte, yf yow will pledge me the


Written by the late Earl of CHATHAM.


DOTES," in which Work it was for the firf Time printed. To the Right Hon. Richard Grenville Temple, Lord Viscount Cobham. INVITATION TO SOUTH LODGE.* From "Tyrrhena Regum Progenios," &c.

ROM Norman princes fprung, their virtues heir,


Cobham, for thee my vaults inclose

Tokay's fmooth cafk unpierc'd. Here purer air,
Breathing fweet pink and balmy role,

Shall meet thy with'd approach. Haste then away,
Nor round and round for ever rove

The magic Ranelagh, or nightly ftray

In gay Spring Gardens glittering grove.

Forfake the Town's huge mafs, ftretch'd long and wide,
Pall'd with Profuffion's fickening joys;

Spurn the vain capital's infipid pride,

Smoke, riches, politics, and noise.

Change points the blunted fenfe of fumptuous pleasure;
And neat repafts in fylvan fhed,

Where Nature's fimple boon is all the treasure,
Care's brow with fmiles have often fpread.


Now flames Andromeda's refulgent fire,
Now rages Procyon's kindled
Now madd'ning Leo darts his ftellar fire,
Fierce Suns revolve the parching day.

*A Seat of Mr. Pitt on Enfield Chace.


The fhepherd now moves faint with languid flock
To riv❜let fresh and bow'ry grove,
To cool retirements of high-arching rock,

O'er the mute ftream no zephyrs move.

Yet weighing fubfidies and England's weal,
You still in anxious thought call forth
Dark ills, which Gaul and Pruffia deep conceal,
Or fierce may burft from towering North.

All-feeing Wifdom, kind to mortals, hides
Time's future births in gloomy night;
Too busy care, with pity, Heaven derides,
Man's fond, officious, feeble might.

Use then aright the prefent. Things to be,

Uncertain flow, like Thames; now peaceful borne

In even bed, foft-gliding down to fea;

Now mould'ring fhores, and oaks uptorn,

Herds, cottages, together (wept away,

Headlong he rolls; the pendant woods

And bellowing cliffs proclaim the dire difmay,
When the fierce torrents roufe the tranquil floods.

They, mafters of themselves, they happy live,
Whose hearts at ease can say secure,
"This day rofe not in vain: let Heav'n next give
"Or clouded fkies, or funfhine pure."

Yet never what swift Time behind has caft,
Shall back return; no pow'r the thing
That was bid not have been; for ever paft,
It flies on unrelenting wing.

Fortune, who joys perverfe in mortal woe,
Still frolicking with cruel play,
Now may on me her giddy fmile bestow,
Now wanton to another stray.

If conftant, I carefs her; if the flies

On fickle plumes, farewel her charms!

All dower I wave (fave what good fame fupplies),
And wrap my foul in Freedom's arms.

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'Midft all the tumults of the warring sphere,
My light-charged bark may haply glide;

Some gale may waft, fome confcious thought fhall chear,
And the small freight unanxious glide.



FARMER late (fo Country Records fay
From the next market homeward took his way;
When as the bleak unfhelter'd heath he croft,
Faft bound by winter in obdurate froft,

The driving fnow-ftorm fmote him in his course,
High blow'd the North, and rag'd in all its force:
Slow pac'd and full of years, th' unequal ftrife
Long time he held, and ftruggled hard for life;
Vanquish'd at length, benumned in every part,
The very life-blood curdling at his heart,
Torpid he ftood, in frozen fetters bound,
Doz'd, reel'd, and dropt, expiring to the ground
Haply his dog, by wond'rous inftinct fraught,
With all the reas'ning attributes of thought,
Saw his fad ftate, and to his dying breaft
Clofe cow'ring his devoted body prefs'd:
Then howl'd amain for help, till paffing near
Some charitable ruftic lent an ear;

Rais'd him from earth, recall'd his flitting breath,
And fnatch'd him from the icy arms of death.
So when the chilling blaft of fecret woe
Checks the foul's genial current in its flow;
When death-like lethargy arrefts the mind,
Till man forgets all feeling for his kind;
To his cold heart the friendly Mufe can give
Warmth and a pulle that forces him to live;
By the sweet magic of her fcene beguile,
And bend his rigid mufcles with a smile;
Shake his ftern breaft with fympathetic fears,
And make his frozen eye-lids melt in tears;
Purfuing ftill her life-reftoring plan,
Till he perceives and owns himself a Man:


Warm'd with these hopes, this night we make appeal
To British hearts, for they are hearts that feel.



HERE are-what shall I call them? Two great powers,
Who turn and overturn this world of our's-

Fortune and folly--tho' not quite the same

In property they play each other's game;
Fortune makes poor men rich, then turns 'em o're
To folly, who foon ftrips them of their store.
Oh! 'twas a mighty neat and lucky hit,
When Pat O'Leary fnapt a wealthy cit,

For why? His wants were big, his means were small,
His wifdom lefs, and fo he spent his all:
When fortune turn'd about and jilted Pat,
Was fool or fortune in the fault of that?
-Sir Martin Madcap held the lucky dice,
He threw, and won five thoufand in a trice:
Keep it cried caution-no, he threw again,
Kick'd down the five, and cut with minus ten.
-Giles Jumble and his dame, a loving pair,
No brains had either, and of course no care,
Till (woe the day), when fortune in her fpite,
Made Giles High Sheriff, and then dubb'd him knight,
Up they both go; my lady leads the dance,
Sir Giles cuts capers on the Wheel of chance;
Heads down, heels over, whilk'd and whisk'd about,
No wonder if their fhallow wits ran out;

Gigg'd by their neighbours, gull'd of all their cash,
Down came Sir Giles, and lo! with thund'ring crafh.
Who fays that Fortune's blind? fhe has quicker fight
Than most of thofe, on whom her favours light;
For why does the enrich the weak and vain,
But that her ventures may come home again?
Pafs'd thro' like quickfilver, they lote not weight,
Nor value in their loco-motives state;
No ftop, no ftay; fo faft her clients follow,
Ere one mouth fhuts, another gapes to swallow;
Whilft like a conjurer's ball-prefto! begone!
The pill that ferv'd Sir Giles, now ferves Sir John.
Sir Euftace had'a fair and lovely wife,
Form'd to adorn and blefs the nuptial life;
Fortune's beft gift in her beft giving mood,
Şir Euftace made that bad which Heav'n made good;


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