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HIS OWN CHARACTER.
WRITTEN IN 1761,
AND FOUND IN ONE OF HIS POCKET BOOKS.
Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune;
* Squire] At that time Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge, and afterwards Bishop of St. David's.
This jeu d'esprit first appeared in Warton's Edition of Pope.
With beauty, with pleasure surrounded, to lan
guishTo weep without knowing the cause of my anguish: To start from short slumbers, and wish for the morn
ingTo close my dull eyes when I see it returning ; Sighs sudden and frequent, looks ever dejectedWords that steal from my tongue, by no meaning
connected! Ah, say, fellow-swains, how these symptoms befell
They smile, but reply not-Sure Delia will tell me! SONG.
Written, at the request of Miss Speed, to an old air of Gemini
ani :- the thought from the French.
THYRSIS, when we parted, swore
Ere the spring he would return-
And the bud that decks the thorn!
Idle notes !- untimely green!
Why this unavailing haste ?
Speak not always winter past,
Mr. Etough, of Cambridge University, the person satirized, was
as remarkable for the eccentricities of his character, as for his personal appearance. Mr. Tyson, of Bene't College, made an etching of his head, and presented it to Mr. Gray, who embellished it with the following lines. Mr. Etough was rector of Therfield, Herts, and of Colmworth, Bedfordshire.
Thus Tophet look'd; so grinn'd the brawling fiend,
Suggested by a view of the Seat and Ruins of a deceased noble
man, at Kingsgate, Kent, in 1766. (The house was built as a correct imitation of Cicero's Formian Villa, at Baiæ.)
OLD, and abandon’d by each venal friend,
Here Holland form’d the pious resolution To smuggle a few years, and strive to mend
A broken character and constitution. On this congenial spot he fix'd his choice;
Earl Goodwin trembled for his neighbouring sand; Here sea-gulls scream, and cormorants rejoice,
And mariners, though shipwreck’d, dread to land. Ilere reign the blustering North and blighting East,
No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing ; Yet Nature could not furnish out the feast,
Art he invokes netv horrors still to bring. Here mouldering fanes and battlements arise,
Turrets and arches nodding to their fall, Unpeopled monast'ries delude our eyes,
And mimic desolation covers all. “Ah!” said the sighing peer, “had Bute been true,
Nor M—'s, R--'s, B~'s friendship vain,
And realiz'd the beauties which we feign:
Then had we seen proud London's hated walls; Owls would have hooted in St. Peter's choir,
And foxes stunk and litter'd in St. Paul's."