Goe, tell the court it glowse,
And shines like painted wood;
Goe, tell the church it showes
What's good, does no good.
If court and church replye,
Give court and church the lye.
Tell potentates, they live
Actinge, but oh! their actions
Not lov'd unless they give!
Not strong, but by their factions.
If potentates replye,
Give potentates the lye.
Tell me not of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they do replye,
Then give them all the lye.
Tell those that brave it moste,
They begge more by spendinge;
Who, in their greatest coste,
Seck nothinge but commendinge.
And if they make replye,
Then give them all the lye.
Tell zeal it lacks devotion;
Tell love it is but luste;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but duste.
And wish them to replye,
For thou must give the lye.
Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beawty that it blasteth;
Tell favour that she falters.
And as they do replye,
Give
every one the lye.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In fickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness.
And if they do replye,
Then give them both the lye.
Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charety of coldness;
Tell law it is contention.
And if they yield replye,
Then give them still the lye.
Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay.
And if they do replye,
Then give them all the lye.
Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by estecming;
Tell skollers lack profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.
If artes and skollers replye,
Give artes and skollers the lye.
Tell faith it's fled the cittye!
Tell how the country errethe;
Tell manhood shakes of pytie,
Tell virtue least preferreth.
And if they do replye,
Spare not to give the lye.
So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing;
Althoughe to give the lye
Deserves no less than stabbing;
Yet stabb at the whose will,
No stabb the soul can kill.
An Imitation from the Spectator. By Mr. ROBERT LLOYD.
MONTH hath roll'd its lazy hours away,
Since Delia's presence bless'd her longing swain;
How could he brook the sluggish time's delay,
What charm could soften such an age of pain?
One fond reflection still his bosom cheer'd,
And sooth'd the torments of a lover's care,
"Twas that for Delia's self the bower he rear'd,
And fancy plac'd the nymph already there.
O come, dear maid, and with a gentle smile,
Such as lights up my lovely fair one's face,
Survey the product of the shepherd's toil,
Nor rob the villa of the villa's grace.
Whate'er improvements strike thy curious sight,
Thy taste hath form'd-let me not call it mine,
Since when I muse on thee, and feed delight,
I form no thought that is not wholly thine.
Th' apartments destin'd for my charm'rs use
(For love in trifles is conspicuous shewn)
Can scarce an object to thy view produce,
But bears the dear resemblance of thine own.
And trust me, love, I could almost believe
This little spot the mansion of my fair;
But that, awak'd from fancy's dreams, I grieve
To find its proper owner is not there.
Oh! I could doat upon the rural scene,
Its prospect over hill and champaign wide,
But that it marks the tedious way between,
That parts thy Damon from his promis'd bride.
The gardens now pour forth their blossoms sweet,
In Nature's flow'ry mantle gaily drest;
The close-trimm'd hedge, and circling border neat,
All ask my Delia for their dearest guest.
The lily pale, the purple blushing rose,
In this fair spot their mingled beauties join; The woodbine here its curling tendrils throws, In wreaths fantastic round the mantling vine. The branching arbour here for lovers made,
For dalliance meet, or song, or amorous tale, Shall oft protect us with its cooling shade, When sultry Phoebus burns the lonely vale. "Tis all another paradise around,
And, trust me, so it would appear to me, Like the first man, were I not lonely found, And but half bless'd, my Delia, wanting thee. For two, but two, I've form'd a lonely walk, And I have call'd it by my fair one's name; How blest with thee, t'enjoy thy pleasing talk, While fools and madmen bow the knee to fame!
The rustic path already I have try'd,
Oft at the sinking of the getting day;
And while, my love, I thought thee by my side,
With careful steps have worn its edge away.
With thee I've held discourse, how passing sweet!
While fancy brought thee to my raptur'd dream,
With thee have prattled in my lone retreat,
And talk'd down suns, on love's delicious theme.
Oft as I wonder thro' the rustic crowd,
Musing with downcast look, and folded arms,
They stare with wonder, when I rave aloud,
And dwell with rapture on thy artless charms.
They call me mad, and oft, with finger rude,
Point at me leering, as I heedless pass;
Yet Colin knows the cause; for love is shrewd,
And the young shepherd courts the farmer's lase.
Among the fruits that grace this little seat,
And all around their clust'ring foliage spread,
Here may'st thou cull the peach, or nect'rine sweet,
And pluck the strawberry from its native bed.
And all along the river's verdant side
I've planted elms, which rise in even row;
And fling their lofty branches far and wide,
Which float reflected on the lake below.
Since I've been absent from my lovely fair,
Imagination forms a thousand schemes;
For O! my Delia, thou art all my care,
And all with me is love and golden dreams.
O flattering promise of secure delight!
When will the lazy pacing hours be o'er?
That I may fly with rapture to thy sight,
And we shall meet again, to part no more.
To a Lady before Marriage. By the late ingenious Mr. TICKEL. No published in his Works.
H! form'd by nature, and refin'd by art,
With charms to win, and sense to fix the heart!
By thousand sought, Clotilda, canst thou free
Thy crowd of captives, and descend to me?
Content in shades obscure to waste thy life,
A hidden beauty, and a country-wife.
O! listen while thy summers are my theme,
Ah! sooth thy partner in his waking dream!
In some small hamlet on the lonely plain,
Where Thames, thro' meadows, rolls his mazy train;
Or where high Windsor, thick with greens array'd,
Waves, his old oaks, and spreads his ample shade,
Fancy has figur'd out our calm retreat;
Already round the visionary seat
Our limes begin to shoot, our flowers to spring,
The brooks to murmur, and the birds to sing.
Where dost thou lie, thou thinly-peopled green?
Thou nameless lawn, and village yet unseen?
Where sons, contented with their native ground,
Ne'er travell'd further than ten furlongs round;
And the tann'd peasant, and his ruddy bride,
Were born together, and together died.
Where early larks best tell the morning light,
And only Philomel disturbs the night,
'Midst gardens here my humble pile shall rise,
With sweets surrounded of ten thousand dies;
All savage where th' embroider'd gardens end,
The haunt of echoes shall my woods ascend;
And oh ! if Heav'n th' ambitious thought approve,
A rill shall warble cross the gloomy grove,
A little rill, o'er pebbly beds convey'd,
Gush down the steep, and glitter through the glade.
What cheering scents those bord'ring banks exhale!
How loud that heifer lows from yonder vale!
That thrush, how shrill! his note so clear, so high,
He drowns each feather'd minstrel of the sky.
Here let me trace, beneath the purpled morn,
The deep-mouth'd beagle, and the sprightly horn;
Or lure the trout with well dissembled flies,
Or fetch the flutt'ring partridge from the skies,
Nor shall thy hand disdain to crop the vine,
The downy peach, or flavour'd nectarine;
Or rob the bee-hive of its golden hoard,
And bear th' unbought luxuriance to thy board.
Sometimes my books by day shall kill the hours,
While from thy needle rise the silken flow'rs,
And thou by turns, to ease my feeble sight,
Resume the volume, and deceive the night.
Oh! when I mark thy twinkling eyes opprest,
Soft whisp'ring, let me warn my love to rest;
Then watch thee, charm'd, while sleep locks every sense,
And to sweet Heav'n commend thy innocence.
Thus reign'd our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wise, hale, and honest, in the days of old;
Till courts arose, where substance pays for show,
And specious joys are bought with real woe.
See Flavia's pendants, large, well spread, and right,
The ear that wears them hears a fool each night:
Mark how th' embroider'd col'nel sneaks away,
To shun the with'ring dame that made him gay;
That knave, to gain a title, lost his fame;
That rais'd his credit by a daughter's shame;
This coxcomb's ribband cost him half his land,
And oaks, unnumber'd, bought that fool a wand.
Fond man, as all his sorrows were too few,
Acquires strange wants that nature never knew.
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