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See, to their feats they hye with merry glee,
And in befeemly order fitten there,

All but the wight of bum y-galled, he

Abhorreth bench, and ftool, and form, and chair, (This hand in mouth y-fix'd, that rends his hair,) And eke with fnubs profound, and heaving breaft, Convulsions intermitting, does declare

His grievous wrong, his dame's unjust beheft, And fcorns her offer'd love, and fhuns to be carefs'd.

His face befprent, with liquid crystal shines;
His blooming face, that seems a purple flow'r,
Which low to earth its drooping head declines,
All fmear'd and fully'd by a vernal show'r.
O the hard bofoms of defpotic pow'r!

All, all, but the, the author of his shame;
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour:
Yet hence the youth, and hence the flow'r shall claim,
If fo I deem aright, tranfcending worth and fame.

Behind fome door, in melancholy thought, Mindlefs of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; Ne for his fellows' joyaunce careth aught, But to the wind all merriment resigns, And deems it fhame if he to peace inclines: And many a fullen look askaunce is fent, Which for his dame's annoyance he defigns ; And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, The more doth he, perverse, her 'haviour past refent.

Ah me! how much I fear, left pride it be !
But if that pride it be, which thus inspires,

Beware, ye dames, with nice difcernment fee Ye quench not too the fparks of nobler fires: Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres, All coward arts, is valour's gen'rous heat; The firm fix'd breaft which fit and right requires, Like Vernon's patriot soul; more juftly great Than craft that pimps for ill, or flow'ry falfe deceit !

Yet, nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!
E'en now fagacious forefight points to show

A little bench of heedlefs bishops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo,

Or bard fublime, if bard may e'er be fo;

As Milton, Shakespeare, names that ne'er shall die! Though now he crawl along the ground fo low; Nor weeting how the Mufe fhould foar on high, Wifheth, poor ftarv'ling elf! his paper-kite may fly.

And this perhaps, who, cens'ring the defign, Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be! if rigid Fates incline; And many an epick to his rage shall yield, And many a poet quit th' Aonian field: And, four'd by age, profound he shall appear, As he who now, with 'fdainful fury thrill'd, Surveys mine work, and levels many a fneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff "" is here?"

But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky,
And Liberty unbars her prifon door;

And, like a rushing torrent, out they fly,

And now the graffy cirque han cover'd o'er


With boift'rous revel-rout and wild uproar.
A thousand ways in wanton rings they run;
Heav'n fhield their short-liv'd pastimes, I implore!
For well may Freedom, erft so dearly won,
Appear to British elf more gladfome than the fun.
Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your fportive trade,
And chafe gay flies, and cull the fairest flow'rs;
For when my bones in grafs-green fods are laid,
For never may ye tafte more careless hours
In knightly caftles, or in ladies' bow'rs.
O vain! to feek delight in earthly thing!

But most in courts, where proud Ambition tow'rs;
Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring
Beneath the pompous dome of Kefar or of King.
See in each sprite fome various bent appear!
These rudely carol moft incondite lay;
Thofe faunt'ring on the green with jocund leer!
Salute the ftranger paffing on his way:
Some builden fragile tenements of clay;
Some to the standing lake their courfes bend,
With pebbles foon at duck-and-drake to play:
Thilk to the huxter's fav'ry cottage tend,

In paftry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend.
Here, as each season yields a diff'rent store,
Each feafon's ftores in order ranged been,
Apples with cabbage-net y-cover'd o'er,
Galling full fore the unmoney wight are seen ;
And goofeb'rie clad in liv'ry red or green:
And here of lovely die the Cath'rine pear:
Fine pear! as lovely for thy juice, I ween:

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may no wight e'er pennylefs come there, Left, fmit with ardent love, he pine with hopeless care

See! cherries here, e'er cherries yet abound, With thread fo white in tempting posies ty'd, Scatt'ring like blooming maid their glances round, With pamper'd look draw little eyes afide, And must be bought, though penury betide: The plum all azure, and the nut all brown; And here, each season, do those cakes abide, Whofe honour'd names th' inventive city own, Rend'ring thro' Britain's ifle Salopia's praises known.+ Admir'd Salopia! that with venial pride

Eyes her bright form in Severn's ambient wave, Fam'd for her loyal cares in perils try'd ;

Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave: Ah! midft the reft, may flow'rs adorn his grave, Whofe art did first those dulcet cates display! A motive fair to Learning's imps he gave, Who cheerless o'er her darkling region stray, Till Reafon's morn arife, and light them on their way. + Shrewsbury cakes.


THE PARISH CLERK. LET courtly bards, in polish'd phrafe, indite

Soft madrigals, to celebrate the fair;

Or paint the splendour of a birthday night,

Where peers and dames in shining robes appear: The task be mine, neglected worth to praise, Alas! too often found, in thefe degen'ráte days.

O gentle Shenftone! could the felf-taught Mufe, Who joys, like thine, in rural fhades to stray, Could the like thine, while fhe her theme purfues,

With native beauties deck the pleafing lay; Then should the humble Clerk, of Barton-Dean, An equal meed of praise with thy School-mistress gain. Ent'ring the village in a deep-worn way,

Hard by an aged oak, his dwelling ftands;
The lowly roof is thatch, the walls are clay;

All rudely rais'd by his forefathers' hands:
Obferve the homely hut, as you pass by,
And pity the good man that lives fo wretchedly.
Vulcanian artists here, with oily brow,

And naked arm, he at his anvil plies,
What time Aurora in the eaft does glow,

And eke when Vefper gilds the western skies: The bellows roar, the hammers loud refound, And from the tortur'd mass the sparkles fly around. Hither the truant fchool-boy frequent wends, And flily, peeping o'er the hatch, is feen

To note the bick'ring workman, while he bends The fteed's ftrong fhoe, or forms the fickle keen. Unthinking, little elf, what ills betide,

Of breech begalled fore, and cruel task befide!

A deep hiftorian, well I wot, is he;

And many tomes, of ancient lore, has read Of England's George, the flow'r of chivalry,

Of Merlin's Mirror, and the Brazen Head; With hundred legends more, which to recite, Would tire the wifeft nurfe,and fpend the longest night.

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