Nor wonder how his fortune sunk.
His brothers fleece him when he's drunk.
I own the moral not exact,
Besides, the tale is false in fact;
And so absurd that could I raise up,
From fields Elysian, fabling

I would accuse him to his face

sop,

For libelling the four-foot race.
Creatures of every kind but ours
Well comprehend their natural powers,
While we, whom reason ought to sway,
Mistake our talents every day.

The Ass was never known so stupid
To act the part of Tray or Cupid;
Nor leaps upon his master's lap
There to be stroked and fed with pap,
As Esop would the world persuade;
He better understands his trade:
Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles,
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.
Our author's meaning, I presume, is
A creature bipes et implumis;
Wherein the moralist design'd
A compliment on humankind;
For here he owns that now and then
Beasts may degenerate into men.

THE PARSON'S CASE.

THAT you, friend Marcus, like a stoic,
Can wish to die in strains heroic,

No real fortitude implies:

Yet all must own thy wish is wise.
Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,
Thy busy, drudging scene of life,
The insolent illiterate vicar,
Thy want of all-consoling liquor,
Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent,
Thy credit sunk, thy money spent,
Thy week made up of fasting-days,
Thy grate unconscious of a blaze,
And to complete thy other curses,
The quarterly demands of nurses,
Are ills you wisely wish to leave,
And fly for refuge to the grave:
And, Ó, what virtue you express,
In wishing such afflictions less!

But now should Fortune shift the scene,

And make thy curateship a dean;

Or some rich benefice provide,
To pamper luxury and pride;

And, having no sinister ends,
Is apt to disoblige his friends.
The nation's good, his master's glory,
Without regard to Whig or Tory,
Were all the schemes he had in view,
Yet he was seconded by few:

Though some had spread a thousand lies,
'Twas he defeated the excise.

'Twas known, though he had borne aspersion, That standing troops were, his aversion: His practice was, in every station,

To serve the king and please the nation.
Though hard to find in every case
The fittest man to fill a place:
His promises he ne'er forgot,
But took memorials on the spot;
His enemies, for want of charity,
Said he affected popularity:
'Tis true the people understood
That all he did was for their good;
Their kind affections he has tried;
No love is lost on either side.

He came to court with fortune clear,
Which now he runs out every year;
Must, at the rate that he goes on,
Inevitably be undone:

O! if his majesty would please
To give him but a writ of ease,
Would grant him license to retire,
As it has long been his desire,
By fair accounts it would be found,
He's poorer by ten thousand pound.
He owns, and hopes it is no sin,
He ne'er was partial to his kin;
He thought it base for men in stations
To crowd the court with their relations:
His country was his dearest mother,
And every virtuous man his brother;
Through modesty or awkward shame
(For which he owns himself to blame),
He found the wisest man he could,
Without respect to friends or blood;
Nor ever acts on private views
When he has liberty to choose.

The Sharper swore he hated play,
Except to pass an hour away:
And well he might; for, to his cost,
By want of skill he always lost;
He heard there was a club of cheats,
Who had contrived a thousand feats;
Could change the stock, or cog a die,

Nor wonder how his fortune sunk.

His brothers fleece him when he's drunk.
I own the moral not exact,
Besides, the tale is false in fact;
And so absurd that could I raise up,
From fields Elysian, fabling Esop,
I would accuse him to his face
For libelling the four-foot race.
Creatures of every kind but ours
Well comprehend their natural powers,
While we, whom reason ought to sway,
Mistake our talents every day.

The Ass was never known so stupid
To act the part of Tray or Cupid;
Nor leaps upon his master's lap
There to be stroked and fed with pap,
As Esop would the world persuade;
He better understands his trade:
Nor comes whene'er his lady whistles,
But carries loads, and feeds on thistles.
Our author's meaning, I presume, is
A creature bipes et implumis;
Wherein the moralist design'd
A compliment on humankind;
For here he owns that now and then
Beasts may degenerate into men.

THE PARSON'S CASE.

THAT you, friend Marcus, like a stoic,
Can wish to die in strains heroic,

No real fortitude implies:

Yet all must own thy wish is wise.
Thy curate's place, thy fruitful wife,
Thy busy, drudging scene of life,
The insolent illiterate vicar,
Thy want of all-consoling liquor,

Thy threadbare gown, thy cassock rent,
Thy credit sunk, thy money spent,
Thy week made up of fasting-days,
Thy grate unconscious of a blaze,
And to complete thy other curses,
The quarterly demands of nurses,
Are ills you wisely wish to leave,
And fly for refuge to the grave:
And, Ó, what virtue you express,
In wishing such afflictions less!

But now should Fortune shift the scene,

And make thy curateship a dean;

Or some rich benefice provide,
To pamper luxury and pride;

With labor small and income great,
With chariot less for use than state;
With swelling scarf, and glossy gown,
And license to reside in town;
To shine where all the gay resort,
At concerts, coffeehouse, or court;
And weekly persecute his grace
With visits, or to beg a place;
With underlings thy flock to teach,
With no desire to pray or preach;
With haughty spouse in vesture fine,
With plenteous meals and generous wine
Would'st thou not wish, in so much ease,
Thy years as numerous as thy days?

THE HARDSHIP UPON THE LADIES.
1733.

POOR ladies! though their business be to play,
'Tis hard they must be busy night and day:
Why should they want the privilege of men,
Nor take some small diversions now and then?
Had women been the makers of our laws,
(And why they were not I can see no cause,)
The men should slave at cards from morn to night;
And female pleasures be to read and write.

A LOVE-SONG

IN THE MODERN TASTE. 1733.

I.

FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions,
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart;
I a slave in thy dominions;
Nature must give way to art.

II.

Mild Arcadians, ever blooming,
Nightly nodding o'er your flocks,
See my weary days consuming
All beneath yon flowery rocks.

III.

Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping,
Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth;
Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.

IV.

Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre;
Soothe my ever-waking slumbers;

V.

Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Armi'd in adamantine chains.
Lead me to the crystal mirrors
Watering soft Elysian plains.

VI.

Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.

VII.

Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flow'ry chaplets crown'd.

VIII.

Thus when Philomela drooping
Softly seeks her silent mate,
See the bird of Juno stooping;
Melody resigns to fate.

THE STORM.

MINERVA'S PETITION.

PALLAS, a goddess chaste and wise,
Descending lately from the skies,
To Neptune went, and begg'd in form
He'd give his orders for a storm;

A storm to drown that rascal Horte,
And she would kindly thank him for't:
A wretch! whom English rogues, to spite her,
Had lately honor'd with a mitre.

The god, who favor'd her request,
Assured her he would do his best:
But venius had been there before,
Pleaded the bishop loved a whore,
And had enlarged her empire wide;
He own'd no deity beside.

At sea or land, if e'er you found him
Without a mistress hang or drown him.
Since Burnet's death, the bishops' bench,
Till Horte arrived, ne'er kept a wench:
If Horte must sink, she grieves to tell it,
She'll not have left one single prelate:
For, to say truth, she did intend him,
Elect of Cyprus in commendam ;

And since her birth the ocean gave her,
She could not doubt her uncle's favor.

Then Proteus urged the same request,