The prospect touch'd his heart with cheer,
And promis'd kind deliv'rance near.
A stable, erst his scorn and hate,
Was now become his wish'd retreat;
His passion cool, his pride forgot,
A Farmer's welcome yard he sought.
The master saw his woful plight,
His limbs, that totter'd with his weight,
And, friendly, to the stable led,
And saw him litter'd, dress'd, and fed.
In slothful ease all night he lay;
The servants rose at break of day;
The market calls. Along the road
His back must bear the pond'rous load;
In vain he struggles, or complains,
Incessant blows reward his pains.
To morrow varies but his toil;

Chain'd to the plough, he breaks the soil;
While scanty meals, at night, repay
The painful labours of the day.

Subdu'd by toil, with anguish rent,
His self-upbraidings found a vent.
"Wretch that I am!" he sighing said,
By arrogance and folly led,

Had but my restive youth been brought
To learn the lesson Nature taught,
Then had I, like my sires of yore,
The prize from every courser bore;
While man bestow'd rewards, and praise,
And females crown'd my latter days.
Now lasting servitude 's my lot,

My birth contemn'd, my speed forgot,
Doom'd am I, for my pride, to bear
A living death, from year to year."

FABLE XIII.

THE

OWL AND THE NIGHTINGALE.

To know the mistress' humour right,
See if her maids are clean and tight;
If Betty waits without her stays,
She copies but her lady's ways.

When iniss comes in with boist'rous shout,
And drops no curtsy going out,
Depend upon 't, mamma is one,
Who reads, or drinks too much alone.
If bottled beer her thirst assuage,
She feels enthusiastic rage,
And burns with ardour to inherit
The gifts, and workings of the spirit.
If learning crack her giddy brains,
No remedy, but death, remains.
Sum the various ills of Life,
up

And all are sweet, to such a wife.
At home, superior wit she vaunts,
And twits her husband with his wants;
Her ragged offspring all around,
Like pigs, are wallowing on the ground:
Impatient ever of control,

She knows no order, but of soul;
With books her litter'd floor is spread,
Of nameless authors, never read;
Foul linen, petticoats, and lace
Fill up the intermediate space.
Abroad, at visitings, her tongue
Is never still, and always wrong;

All meanings she defines away,

And stands, with truth and sense, at bay.
If e'er she meets a gentle heart,
Skill'd in the housewife's useful art,
Who makes her family her care,

And builds Contentment's temple there,
She starts at such mistakes in Nature,
And cries, "Lord help us! what a creature!"
Melissa, if the moral strike,
You'll find the fable not unlike.

AN Owl, puff'd up with self-conceit,
Lov'd learning better than his meat;
Old manuscripts he treasur'd up,
And rummag'd every grocer's shop;
At pastry-cooks was known to ply,
And strip, for science, every pie.
For modern poetry and wit,
He had read all that Blackmore writ;
So intimate with Curl was grown,
His learned treasures were his own;
To all his authors had access,
And sometimes would correct the press.
In logic he acquir'd such knowledge,
You'd swear him fellow of a college;
Alike to every art and science,
His daring genius bid defiance,
And swallow'd wisdom, with that haste,
That cits do custards at a feast.

Within the shelter of a wood,
One ev'ning, as he musing stood,
Hard by, upon a leafy spray,
A Nightingale began his lay.
Sudden he starts, with anger stung,
And, screeching, interrupts the song.

Pert, busy thing, thy airs give o'er,
And let my contemplation soar.
What is the music of thy voice,
But jarring dissonance and noise?
Be wise. True harmony, thou 'lt find,
Not in the throat, but in the mind;
By empty chirping not attain'd,
But by laborious study gain'd.
Go read the authors Pope explodes,
Fathom the depth of Cibber's odes,
With modern plays improve thy wit,
Read all the learning Henley writ;
And, if thou needs must sing, sing then,
And emulate the ways of men;

So shalt thou grow, like me, refin'd,
And bring improvement to thy kind."
"Thou wretch," the little warbler cry'd,
"Made up of ignorance and pride,
Ask all the birds, and they'll declare,
A greater blockhead wings not air.
Read o'er thyself, thy talents scan,
Science was only meant for man.
No useless authors me molest,
I mind the duties of my nest;
With careful wing protect my young,
And cheer their ev'nings with a song.

"Thus, following Nature, and her laws,
From men and birds I claim appla ise;
While, nurs'd in pedantry and sloth,
An Owl is scorn'd alike by both."

END OF FABLES FOR THE LADIES.

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

A HYMN TO POVERTY.

O POVERTY! thou source of human art,
Thou great inspirer of the poet's song!
In vain Apollo dictates, and the Nine
Attend in vain, unless thy mighty hand
Direct the tuneful lyre. Without thy aid
The canvass breathes no longer. Music's charms,
Uninfluenc'd by thee, forget to please:
Thou giv'st the organ sound; by thee the flute
Breathes harmony; the tuneful viol owns
Thy pow'rful touch. The warbling voice is thine:
Thou gav'st to Nicolini every grace,
And every charm to Farinelli's song.

By thee the lawyer pleads. The soldier's arm
I nerv'd by thee. Thy pow'r the gownman feels,
And, urg'd by thee, unfolds Heav'n's mystic truths.
The haughty fair, that swells with proud disdain,
And smiles at mischiefs, which her eyes have made,
Thou humblest to submit and bless mankind.
Hail, pow'r omnipotent! Me uninvok'd
Thon deign'st to visit, far, alas! unfit
To bear thy awful presence. O, retire!
At distance let me view thee; lest, too nigh,
I sink beneath the terrours of thy face!

THE LOVER AND THE FRIEND.

O THOU, for whom my lyre I string,
Of whom I speak, and think, and sing!
Thou constant object of my joys,
Whose sweetness every wish employs!
Thou dearest of thy sex attend,
And hear the lover and the friend.

Fear not the poet's flatt'ring strain;
No idle praise my verse shall stain;
The lowly numbers shall impart
The faithful dictates of my heart,
Nor humble modesty offend,
And part the lover from the friend.

Not distant is the cruel day,

That tears me from my hopes away;
Then frown not, fairest, if I try

To steal the moisture from your eye,
Or force your heart a sigh to send,
To mourn the lover and the friend.

No perfect joy my life c'er krew,
But what arose from love and you;
Nor can I fear another pain
Than your unkindness or disdain :
Then let your looks their pity lend,
To cheer the lover and the friend.

Whole years I strove against the flame,
And suffer'd ills, that want a name;
Yet still the painful secret kept,
And to myself in silence wept;
Till grown unable to contend,

I own'd the lover and the friend.

I saw you still. Your gen'rous heart In all my sorrows bore a part;

Yet while your eyes with pity glow'd,
No words of hope your tongue bestow'd,
But mildly bid me cease to blend
The name of lover with the friend.

Sick with desire, and mad with pain,
I seek for happiness in vain :
Thou lovely maid, to thee I cry,
Heal me with kindness, or I die!
From sad despair my soul defend,
And fix the lover and the friend.

Curs'd be all wealth that can destroy
My utmost hope of earthly joy!
Thy gifts, O Fortune! I resign,
Let her and poverty be mine!
And every year that life shall lend,
Shall bless the lover and the friend.

In vain, alas! in vain I strive
To keep a dying hope alive;
The last sad remedy remains,
'Tis absence that must heal my pains,
Thy image from my bosom rend,
And force the lover from the friend.

Vain thought! though seas between us roll,
Thy love is rooted in my soul;
The vital blood that warms my heart
With thy idea must depart.

And Death's decisive stroke must end
At once the lover and the friend.

SONGS.

SONG I.

Tues I said to my heart, in a pet t' other day,
"I had rather be hang'd than go moping this way,
No throbbings, no wishes your moments employ,
But you sleep in my breast without motion or joy.
"When Chloe perplex'd me 'twas sweeter by half,
And at Thais's wiles I could often-times laugh;
Your burnings and achings I strove not to cure,
Though one was a jilt, and the other a whore.

"When I walk'd up the Mall, or stroll'd through the street,

Not a petticoat brush'd me, but then you could beat, Or if bang went the hoop against corner or post, In the magical round you were sure to be lost.

For Chloe I burnt with an innocent flame,
And beat to the music that breath'd out her name;
Three summers flew over the castles I built,
And beheld me a fool, and my goddess a jilt.

"Next Thais, the wanton, my wishes employ'd,
And the kind one repair'd what the cruel destroy'd:
Like Shadrach, I liv'd in a furnace of fire,
But, unlike him, was scorch'd and compell'd to retire.
"Recruited once more, I forgot all my pain,
And was jilted, and burnt, and bedevil'd again;
Not a petticoat fring'd, or the heel of a shoe,
Ever pass'd you by day-light, but at it I flew.

"Thus jilted, and wounded, and burnt to a coal,
For rest I retreated again to be whole;
But your eyes, ever open to lead me astray,
Have beheld a new face, and command me away.

"But remember, in whatever flames I may burn,
'Twill be folly to ask for, or wish my return:
Neither Thais, nor Chloe, again shall inflame,
But a nymph more provoking than all you can
name."

This said, with a bound from my bosom he flew ; O, Phyllis! these eyes saw him posting to you; Enslav'd by your wit, he grows fond of his chain, And vows I shall never possess him again.

COLLIN.

O'er hill, dale, and valley, my Phebe and I
Together will wander, and love shall be by:
Her Collin shall guard her safe all the long day,
And Phebe at night all his pains shall repay.

PHEBE.

By moonlight, when shadows glide over the plain, His kisses shall cheer me, his arm shall sustain ; The dark haunted grove I can trace without fear, Or sleep in a church-yard, if Collin is near.

BOTH.

'Tis love, like the Sun, &c.

COLLIN.

Ye shepherds that wanton it over the plain,
How fleeting your transports, how lasting your pain!
Inconstancy shun, and reward the kind she,
And learn to be happy of Phebe and me.

PHEBE.

Ye nymphs, who the pleasures of love never try'd, Attend to my strains, and take me for your guide; Your hearts keep from pride and inconstancy free, And learn to be happy of Collin and me.

BOTH.

'Tis love, like the Sun, that gives light to the year,
The sweetest of blessings that life can endear;
Our pleasures it brightens, drives sorrow away,
Gives joy to the night, and enlivens the day.

Kind love shall repay the fatigues of the day, And melt us to softer alarms;

Coy Phillis shall burn at her soldier's return, And bless the brave youth in her arms.

CHORUS.

The rebels shall fly, as with shouts we draw nigh, And Echo shall victory ring;

Then safe from alarms, we 'll rest on our arms, And chorus it, long live the king!

SONG VI.

To make the wife kind, and to keep the house still, You must be of her mind, let her say what she will; In all that she does you must give her her way, For tell her she 's wrong, and you lead her astray.

CHORUS.

Then, husbands, take care, of suspicion beware, Your wives may be true, if you fancy they are; With confidence trust them, and be not such elves, As to make by your jealousy horns for yourselves. Abroad all the day if she chooses to roam,

Seem pleas'd with her absence, she'll sigh to come home;

The man she likes best, and longs most to get at, Be sure to commend, and she 'll hate him for that.

CHORUS. Then, husbands, &c.

What virtues she has, you may safely oppose, Whatever her follies are, praise her for those; Applaud all her schemes that she lays for a man, For accuse her of vice, and she 'll sin if she can.

CHORUS.

Then, husbands, take care, of suspicion beware, Your wives may be true, if you fancy they are; With confidence trust them, and be not such elves, As to make by your jealousy horns for yourselves.

SONG VII.

DAMON.

HARK, hark, o'er the plains how the merry bells
Asleep while my charmer is laid!
[ring,
The village is up, and the day on the wing,
And Phillis may yet die a maid,

PHILLIS.

Tis hardly yet day, and I cannot away,

O, Damon, I'm young and afraid; To morrow, my dear, I'll to church without fear, But let me to night lie a maid.

DAMON.

The bridemaids are met, and mamma's on the fret,
All, all my coy Phillis upbraid;

Come open fi. door, and deny me no more,
Nor ery to have longer a maid.

PRILLIS.

Dear shepherd, forbear, and to morrow I swear,
To morrow I'll not be afraid;
I'll open the door, and deny you no more,
Nor cry to live longer a maid.

DAMON.

No, no, Phillis, no, on that bosom of snow
To night shall your shepherd be laid;
By morning my dear shall be eas'd of her fear,
Nor grieve she 's no longer a maid.

PHILLIS.

Then open the door, 'twas unbolted before, His bliss silly Damon delay'd;

To church let us go, and if there I say no, O then let me die an old maid.

SONG VIII.

THAT Jenny's my friend, my delight, and my pride,
I always have boasted, and seek not to hide;
I dwell on her praises wherever I go,
They say I'm in love, but I answer no, no.

At ev'ning oft-times with what pleasure I see
A note from her hand, "I'll be with you at tea!"
My heart how it bounds, when I hear her below!
But say not 'tis love, for I answer no, no.

She sings me a song, and I echo each strain,
Again I cry, Jenny! sweet Jenny, again!
I kiss her soft lips, as if there I could grow,
And fear I'm in love, though I answer no, no.
She tells me her faults, as she sits on my knee,
I chide her, and swear she's an angel to me:
My shoulder she taps, and still bids me think so;
Who knows but she loves, though she tells me, no
no?

Yet such is my temper, so dull am I grown,

I ask not her heart, but would conquer my own : Her bosom's soft peace shall I seek to o'erthrow, And wish to persuade, while I answer no, no? From beauty, and wit, and good-humour, ah! why Should prudence advise, and compel me to fly? Thy bounties, O Fortune! make haste to bestow, And let me deserve her, or still I say no.

SONG IX.

You tell me I'm handsome, I know not how true, And easy, and chatty, and good-humour'd too; That my lips are as red as the rose-bud in June, And my voice, like the nightingale's, sweetly in

tune:

All this has been told me by twenty before,
But he that would win me, must flatter me more.

If beauty from virtue receive no supply,
Or prattle from prudence, how wanting am I!
My ease and good-humour short raptures will bring,
And my voice, like the nightingale's, know but a
spring.

For charms such as these then, your praises give o'er,
To love me for life, you must love me for more.

Then talk to me not of a shape or an air,
For Chloe, the wanton, can rival me there:
'Tis virtue alone that makes beauty look gav,
And brightens good-humour, as sunshine the day;
For that if you love me, your flame shall be true,
And I, in my turn, may be taught to love too.