Could Yorkshire-tyke but do the same,
Then he like them might thrive;
But Fortune, Fortune, cruel dame,
To starve thou dost him drive.
In Will's old master's plenteous days,
His memory e'er be bless'd,
What need of speaking in his praise?
His goodness stands confess'd.
At his famed gate stood Charity,
In lovely sweet array;
Ceres and Hospitality
Dwelt there both night and day.
But to conclude, and be concise,
Truth must Will's voucher be;
Truth never yet went in disguise,
For naked still is she.
There is but one, but one alone,
Can set the Pilgrim free,
And make him cease to pine and moan;
O Frankland, it is thee!
Oh! save him from a dreary way;
To Coxwould he must hie; Bereft of thee he wends astray, At Coxwould he must die.
Oh! let him in thy hall but stand,
And wear a porter's gown,
Duteous to what thou may'st command, Thus William's wishes crown.
LET others from the Town retire,
And in the fields seek new delight;
My Phillis does such joys inspire,
No other objects please my sight.
In her alone I find whate'er
Beauties a country landscape grace;
No shade so lovely as her hair,
Nor plain so sweet as is her face.
Lilies and roses there combine,
More beauteous than in flowery field; Transparent is her skin so fine,
To this each crystal stream must yield. Her voice more sweet than warbling sound, Though sung by nightingale or lark; Her eyes such lustre dart around, Compared to them the sun is dark.
Both light and vital heat they give,
Cherish'd by them my love takes root;
From her kind looks does life receive,
Grows a fair plant, bears flowers and fruit.
Such fruit, I ween, did once deceive
The common parent of mankind,
And made transgress our mother Eve;
Poison its core, though fair its rind.
Yet so delicious is its taste,
I cannot from the bait abstain; But to the enchanting pleasure haste, Though I were sure 'twould end in pain.
DESPAIRING SHEPHERD.
ALEXIS shunn'd his fellow-swains,
Their rural sports and jocund strains;
(Heaven guard us all from Cupid's bow!)
He lost his crook, he left his flocks,
And, wandering through the lonely rocks,
He nourish'd endless woe.
The nymphs and shepherds round him came:
His grief some pity, others blame;
The fatal cause all kindly seek:
He mingled his concern with theirs ;
them back their friendly tears;
He sigh'd, but would not speak.
Clorinda came among the rest,
And she, too, kind concern express'd,
And ask'd the reason of his woe:
She ask'd, but with an air and mien
That made it easily foreseen
She fear'd too much to know.
The shepherd raised his mournful head;
And will you pardon me, (he said)
While I the cruel truth reveal,
Which nothing from my breast should tear,
Which never should offend your ear,
But that you bid me tell?
"Tis thus I rove, 'tis thus complain, Since you appear'd upon the plain;
You are the cause of all my care : Your eyes ten thousand dangers dart, Ten thousand torments vex my heart; I love, and I despair.'
'Too much, Alexis, I have heard:
'Tis what I thought, 'tis what I fear'd;
And yet I pardon you, (she cried)
But you shall promise ne'er again
To breathe your vows or speak your pain:'— He bow'd, obey'd, and died.
THAT all from Adam first began,
None but ungodly Whiston doubts;
And that his son and his son's son
Were all but ploughmen, clowns, and louts.
Each when his rustic pains began,
To merit pleaded equal right;
'Twas only who left off at noon,
Or who went on to work till night.
But coronets we owe to crowns,
And favour to a court's affection;
By nature we are Adam's sons,
And sons of Anstis by election.
Kingsale! eight hundred years have roll'd
Since thy forefathers held the plough;
When this in story shall be told,
Add, that my kindred do so now.
The man who by his labour gets
His bread, in independent state,
Who never begs, and seldom eats,
Himself can fix or change his fate.
WRITTEN AT THE HAGUE, 1696.
WHILE with labour assiduous due pleasure I mix,
And in one day atone for the business of six,
In a little Dutch chaise, on a Saturday night,
On my left hand my Horace, a w- on my right:
No memoirs to compose, and no postboy to move,
That on Sunday may hinder the softness of love;
For her, neither visits, nor parties at tea,
Nor the long-winded cant of a dull refugee;
This night and the next shall be her's, shall be mine,
To good or ill fortune the third we resign :
Thus scorning the world, and superior to Fate,
I drive on my car in processional state;
So with Phia through Athens Pisistratus rode,
Men thought her Minerva, and him a new god.
But why should I stories of Athens rehearse,
Where people knew love, and were partial to verse;
Since none can with justice my pleasures oppose,
In Holland half drowned in interest and prose ?
By Greece and past ages what need I be tried,
When the Hague and the present are both on my
side;
And is it enough for the joys of the day,
To think what Anacreon or Sappho would say? When good Vandergoes and his provident vrow, As they gaze on my triumph, do freely allow That, search all the province, you'll find no man dar is
So bless'd as the Englishen heer Secretar' is.
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