And now-alas for unforeseen mishaps!

They put on a damp night-cap and relapse;

They thought they must have died they were fo bad

Their peevith hearers almoft wish they had.
Some fretful tempers wince at ev'ry touch,
You always do too little or too much :
You speak with life, in hopes to entertain,
Your elevated voice goes through the brain;
You fall at once into a lower key,

That's worse the drone-pipe of an humble bee.
The fouthern fafh admits too ftrong a light,
You rife and drop the curtain-now it's night.
He shakes with cold-you stir the fire and strive
To make a blaze-that's roafting him alive.
Serve him with ven'son, and he chooses fish;
With foal that's just the sort he would not wish.
He takes what he at first profess'd to loath,
And in due time feeds heartily on both;
Yet ftill, o'erclouded with a constant frown,
He does not swallow, but he gulps it down,
Your hope to please him, vain on ev'ry plan,
Himself fhould work that wonder, if he can→→→

Alas! his efforts double his distress,

He likes your's little, and his own ftill lefs.
Thus always teafing others, always teas'd,
His only pleasure is-to be difpleas'd.

I pity bashful men who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserv'd disdain,
And bear the marks, upon a blushing face,
Of needlefs fhame and felf-impos'd disgrace.
Our fenfibilities are fo acute,

The fear of being filent makes us mute.

We fometimes think we could a speech produce,
Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loofe;
But, being tried, it dies upon the lip,

Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:
Our wafted oil unprofitably burns,

Like hidden lamps in old fepulchral urns.
Few Frenchmen of this evil have complain'd;
It seems as if we Britons were ordain'd,

By way of wholesome curb upon our pride,
To fear each other, fearing none befide.
The cause perhaps inquiry may descry,
Self-fearching with an introverted eye,
Conceal'd within an unfuspected part,
The vaineft corner of our own vain heart:

For ever aiming at the world's esteem,
Our felf importance ruins its own scheme;
In other eyes our talents rarely shown,
Become at length fo fplendid in our own,
We dare not risque them into public view,
Left they miscarry of what feems their due.
True modefty is a difcerning grace,

And only blufhes in the proper place;

But counterfeit is blind, and fkulks through fear, Where 'tis a fhame to be asham'd t' appear: Humility the parent of the first;

The laft by vanity produc'd and nurst.

The circle form'd, we fit in filent state,
Like figures drawn upon a dial-plate;

Yes ma'am, and no ma'am, utter'd foftly, show
Ev'ry five minutes how the minutes go;
Each individual suffering a constraint
Poetry may, but colours cannot paint;
And, if in clofe committee on the sky,
Reports it hot or cold, or wet or dry;
And finds a changing clime an happy fource
Of wife reflection and well-tim'd difcourfe.

We next inquire, but foftly and by stealth,

Like confervators of the public health,

Of epidemic throats, if fuch there are,

And coughs, and rheums, and phthific, and catarrh.
That theme exhaufted, a wide chasm enfues,
Fill'd up at laft with interefting news;

Who danc'd with whom, and who are like to wed.
And who is hang'd, and who is brought to bed;
But fear to call a more important cause,
As if 'twere treafon against English laws.
The vifit paid, with ecstasy we come,
As from a feven years transportation, home,
And there resume an unembarrass'd brow,
Recov'ring what we loft we know not how,
The faculties that feem'd reduc'd to nought,
Expreffion and the privilege of thought.

The reeking, roaring hero of the chafe,
I give him over as a defp'rate cafe.
Phyficians write in hopes to work a cure,
Never, if honeft ones, when death is fure;
And though the fox he follows may be tam'd,
A mere fox-follower never is reclaim'd.

Some farrier fhould prefcribe his proper course,
Whofe only fit companion is his horfe,

Or if, deferving of a better doom,

The noble beaft judge otherwife, his groom.

Yet ev❜n the rogue that serves him, though he stand
To take his honour's orders, cap in hand,
Prefers his fellow-grooms, with much good fenfe,
Their fkill a truth, his master's a pretence.
If neither horfe nor groom affect the squire,
Where can at laft his jockeyfhip retire?
Oh to the club, the scene of favage joys,
The school of coarfe good fellowship and noife;
There, in the fweet fociety of those

Whose friendship from his boyish years he chofe,
Let him improve his talent if he can,
Till none but beasts acknowledge him a man.
Man's heart had been impenetrably feal'd,
Like their's that cleave the flood or graze the field,
Had not his Maker's all-beftowing hand
Giv'n him a foul, and bade him understand;
The reas'ning pow'r vouchfaf'd of course inferr'd
The pow'r to clothe that reason with his word;
For all is perfect that God works on earth,
And he that gives conception, aids the birth.
If this be plain, 'tis plainly understood,
What uses of his boon the giver would.
The mind, difpatch'd upon her busy toil,

Should range where Providence has bleft the foil;