TO THE

COUNTESS OF DORSET.

WRITTEN IN HER MILTON, BY MR. BRADBURY.
SEE here how bright the first-born virgin shone,
And how the first fond lover was undone.
Such charming words our beauteous mother spoke
As Milton wrote, and such as your's her look.
Your's, the best copy of the' original face
Whose beauty was to furnish all the race:
Such chains no author could escape but he;
There's no way to be safe, but not to see.

ΤΟ

THE LADY DURSLEY',

ON THE SAME SUBJECT.

HERE reading how fond Adam was betray'd,
And how by sin Eve's blasted charms decay'd,
Our common loss unjustly you complain,
So small that part of it which you sustain.
You still, fair mother, in your offspring trace
The stock of beauty destined for the race:
Kind Nature, forming them, the pattern took
From Heaven's first work, and Eve's original look.
You, happy Saint, the serpent's power control;
Scarce any actual guilt defiles your soul:
And hell does o'er that mind vain triumph boast,
Which gains a Heaven, for earthly Eden lost.

1 Elizabeth, daughter of Baptist, Viscount Campden.

With virtue strong as your's had Eve been arm'd, In vain the fruit had blush'd, or serpent charm'd; Nor had our bliss by penitence been bought, Nor had frail Adam fallen, nor Milton wrote.

TO MY

LORD BUCKHURST',

VERY YOUNG, PLAYING WITH A CAT.

THE amorous youth, whose tender breast
Was by his darling Cat possess'd,
Obtain'd of Venus his desire,
Howe'er irregular his fire:
Nature the power of love obey'd,
The Cat became a blushing maid;
And on the happy change, the boy
Employ'd his wonder and his joy.
Take care, O beauteous Child, take care,
Lest thou prefer so rash a prayer,
Nor vainly hope the queen of love
Will e'er thy favourite's charms improve.
O quickly from her shrine retreat,
Or tremble for thy darling's fate.

The queen of love, who soon will see
Her own Adonis live in thee,
Will lightly her first loss deplore,
Will easily forgive the boar:

Her eyes with tears no more will flow,
With jealous rage her breast will glow,
And on her tabby-rival's face

She deep will mark her new disgrace.

Afterwards created Duke of Dorset.

TO THE HONOURABLE

CHARLES MONTAGUE, ESQ.

HOWE'ER, 'tis well, that while mankind
Through Fate's perverse meander errs,
He can imagined pleasures find
To combat against real cares.

Fancies and notions he pursues,

Which ne'er had being but in thought Each, like the Grecian artist, wooes The image he himself has wrought.

Against experience he believes;

He argues against demonstration: Pleased when his reason he deceives, And sets his judgment by his passion.

The hoary fool, who many days

Has struggled with continued sorrow,
Renews his hope, and blindly lays
The desperate bet upon to-morrow.

To-morrow comes: 'tis noon; 'tis night:
This day like all the former flies:
Yet on he runs to seek delight
To-morrow, till to-night he dies.

Our hopes, like towering falcons, aim
At objects in an airy height:
The little pleasure of the game
Is from afar to view the flight.

Our anxious pains we, all the day,
In search of what we like employ ;
Scorning at night the worthless prey,
We find the labour gave the joy.

At distance through an artful glass
To the mind's eye things well appear;
They lose their forms, and make a mass
Confused and black, if brought too near.

If we see right, we see our woes:
Then what avails it to have eyes?
From ignorance our comfort flows:
The only wretched are the wise.

We, wearied, should lie down in death:
This cheat of life would take no more
If you thought fame but empty breath,
I, Phillis but a perjured whore.

ΤΟ

DR. SHERLOCK,

ON HIS

PRACTICAL DISCOURSE CONCERNING DEATH.

FORGIVE the Muse who, in unhallow'd strains,
The saint one moment from his God detains ;
For sure whate'er you do, where'er you are,
'Tis all but one good work, one constant prayer.
Forgive her; and entreat that God, to whom
Thy favour'd vows with kind acceptance come,
To raise her notes to that sublime degree
Which suits a song of piety and thee.

Wondrous good Man! whose labours may repel The force of sin, may stop the rage of hell; Thou, like the Baptist, from thy God wast sent, The crying Voice to bid the world repent.

Thee youth shall study, and no more engage Their flattering wishes for uncertain age; No more with fruitless care and cheated strife Chase fleeting pleasure through this maze of life; Finding the wretched all they here can have But present food and but a future grave, Each, great as Philip's victor son, shall view This abject world; and, weeping, ask a new. Decrepit Age shall read thee, and confess Thy labours can assuage where medicines cease; Shall bless thy words, their wounded souls' relief, The drops that sweeten their last dregs of life; Shall look to heaven, and laugh at all beneath; Own riches, gather'd trouble; fame, a breath; And life an ill, whose only cure is death.

Thy even thoughts with so much plainness flow, Their sense untutor'd Infancy may know; Yet to such height is all that plainness wrought, Wit may admire, and letter'd Pride be taught. Easy in words thy style, in sense sublime,

On its bless'd steps each age and sex may rise; 'Tis like the ladder in the Patriarch's dream, Its foot on earth, its height above the skies. Diffused its virtue, boundless is its power; 'Tis public health, and universal cure: Of heavenly manna 'tis a second feast; A nation's food, and all to every taste.

To its last height mad Britain's guilt was rear'd, And various death, for various crimes, she fear'd: