THE WISH.

[Woodbridge, about 1774.]

Y Mira, shepherds, is as fair

MY

As sylvan nymphs who haunt the vale,
As sylphs who dwell in purest air,
As fays who skim the dusky dale,
As Venus was when Venus fed
From watery Triton's oozy bed.

My Mira, shepherds, has a voice
As soft as Syrinx in her grove,
As sweet as echo makes her choice,
As mild as whispering virgin-love;
As gentle as the winding stream
Or fancy's song when poets dream.

IO

INEBRIETY.

[Inebriety, a Poem, in three Parts. Ipswich, printed and sold by C. Punchard, Bookseller, in the Butter-Market, 1775. Price one shilling and sixpence.]

PR

Resumption or Meanness are but too often the only articles to be discovered in a Preface. Whilst one author haughtily affects to despise the publick attention, another timidly courts it. I would no more beg for than disdain applause, and therefore should advance nothing in Favor of the following little Poem, did it not appear a Cruelty and disregard to send a first Production naked into the World.

The WORLD!how pompous, and yet how trifling the sound. Every MAN, Gentle Reader, has a WORLD of his own, & whether it consists of half a score, or half a thousand Friends, 'tis his, and he loves to boast of it. Into my WORLD, therefore, I commit this, my Muse's earliest labor, nothing doubting the Clemency of the Climate, nor fearing the Partiality of the censorious.

Something by way of Apology for this trifle, is perhaps necessary; especially for those parts, wherein I have taken such great Liberties with Mr. POPE; that Gentleman, secure in immortal Fame, would forgive me; forgive me too, my friendly Critic; I promise thee, thou wilt find the Extracts from the Swan of Thames the best Parts of the Performance;

Few, I dare venture to affirm, will pay me so great a Compliment, as to think I have injured Mr POPE; Fewer, I hope, will think I endeavoured to do it, and Fewest of all will think any thing about it.

The LADIES will doubtless favor my Attempt; for them indeed it was principally composed; I have endeavored to demonstrate that it is their own Faults, if they are not deemed as good MEN, as half the masculine World; that a personal Difference of Sex need not make a real Difference; and that a tender Languishment, a refin'd Delicacy, and a particular attention to shine in Dress, will render the Beau-Animal infinitely more feminine, than the generality of LADIES, whatever arcane Tokens of Manhood the said Animal may be indued with; and yet, ye FAIR! these creatures pass even in your catalogue for MEN; which I'm afraid is a Demonstration that the real MAN is very scarce.

Some grave Head or other may possibly tell me, that Vice is to be lash'd, not indulg'd; that true Poetry forbids, not encourages, Folly; and such other wise and weighty Sentences, picked from POPE and HORACE, as he shall think most appertaining to his own dignity. But this, my good Reader, is a trifle; People now a Days are not to be preach'd into Reflection, or they pay Parsons, not Poets for it, if they were; they listen indeed to a Discourse from the Pulpit, for MEN are too wise to give away their Money without any consideration; and though they don't mind what is said there, 'tis doubtless a great Satisfaction to think they might if they choose it; but a MAN reads a Poem for quite a different purpose: to be lul'd into ease from reflection, to be lul'd into an inclination for pleasure, and (where I confess it comes nearer the Sermon) to be lul'dasleep.

But lest the Apology should have the latter effect in itself, and so take away the merit of the Performance by forestalling that agreeable Event: I without further ceremony bid thee Adieu!

INEBRIETY.

PART THE FIRST.

HE mighty Spirit and its power which stains1
The bloodless cheek, and vivifies the brains,

ΤΗ

I sing. Say ye, its fiery Vot'ries true,

The jovial Curate, and the shrill-tongu'd Shrew;
Ye, in the floods of limpid poison nurst,

Where Bowl the second charms like Bowl the first;
Say, how and why the sparkling ill is shed,

The Heart which hardens, and which rules the Head.
When Winter stern his gloomy front uprears,
A sable void the barren earth appears;

The meads no more their former verdure boast,
Fast bound their streams, and all their Beauty lost;
The herds, the flocks, their icy garments mourn,
And wildly murmur for the Spring's return;
The fallen branches from the sapless tree
With glittering fragments strow the glassy way;
From snow-top'd Hills the whirlwinds keenly blow,
Howl through the Woods, and pierce the vales below;
Through the sharp air a flaky torrent flies,
Mocks the slow sight, and hides the gloomy skies;
The fleecy clouds their chilly bosoms bare,
And shed their substance on the floating air;

1"The mighty Mother, and her Son, who brings
"The Smithfield Muses to the ear of Kings,
"I sing. Say ye, her instruments, the great,
"Call'd to this Work by Dulness, Jove, and Fate;
"You by whose care, in vain decry'd, and curst,
"Still Dunce the second reigns like Dunce the first;
"Say, how the Goddess bade Britania sleep,
"And pour'd her spirit o'er the land and deep."

IO.

20

Pope's Dunciad.—

The floating air their downy substance glides
Through springing Waters, and prevents their tides;
Seizes the rolling Waves, and, as a God,

Charms their swift race, and stops the refl'ent flood;
The opening valves, which fill the venal road,
Then scarcely urge along the sanguine flood;
The labouring Pulse a slower motion rules,
The Tendons stiffen, and the Spirit cools;
Each asks the aid of [Nature's] sister Art,
To chear the senses, and to warm the Heart.
The gentle fair on nervous tea relies,
Whilst gay good-nature sparkles in her eyes;
An inoffensive Scandal fluttering round,
Too rough to tickle, and too light to wound;
Champain the Courtier drinks, the spleen to chase,
The Colonel burgundy, and port his Grace;
Turtle and 'rrack the city rulers charm,
Ale and content the labouring peasants warm;
O'er the dull embers happy Colin sits,

Colin, the prince of joke and rural wits;

Whilst the wind whistles through the hollow panes,
He drinks, nor of the rude assault complains;
And tells the Tale, from sire to son retold,

Of spirits vanishing near hidden gold;

Of moon-clad Imps, that tremble by the dew,
Who skim the air, or glide o'er waters blue.
The throng invisible, that doubtless float

30

40

By mould'ring Tombs, and o'er the stagnant moat; 50
Fays dimly glancing on the russet plain,

And all the dreadful nothing of the Green.
And why not these? Less fictious is the tale,
Inspir'd by Hel'con's streams, than muddy ale?
Peace be to such, the happiest and the best,
Who with the forms of fancy urge their jest;
Who wage no war with an Avenger's Rod,
Nor in the pride of reason curse their God.

When in the vaulted arch Lucina gleams,
And gaily dances o'er the azure streams;
When in the wide cerulean space on high

60