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PHILIPS-A.D. 1676-1708.

THE SPLENDID SHILLING. Happy the man, who void of cares and strife, In silken or in leathern purse retains A Splendid Shilling: he nor hears with pain New oysters cry'd, nor sighs for cheerful ale ; But with his friends, when nightly mists arise, To Juniper's Magpie, or Town-hall repairs: Where, mindful of the nymph, whose wanton eye Transfix'd his soul, and kindled amorous flames, Cloe or Phyllis, he each circling glass Wisheth her health, and joy, and equal love. Meanwhile, he smokes, and laughs at merry tale, Or pun ambiguous, or conundrum quaint. But I, whom griping penury surrounds, And hunger, sure attendant upon want, With scanty offals, and small acid tiff, (Wretched repast !) my meagre corpse sustain ; Then solitary walk, or doze at home In garret vile, and with a warming puff Regale chill'd fingers; or from tube as black As winter-chimney, or well polish'd jet, Exhale mundungus, ill perfuming scent : Not blacker tube, nor of a shorter size, Smokes Cambro-Briton (vers'd in pedigree, Sprung from Cadwallador and Arthur, kings Full famous in romantic tale) when he O'er many a craggy hill and barren cliff, Upon a cargo of fam’d Cestrian cheese, High overshadowing rides, with a design To vend his wares, or at th' Arvonian mart, Or Maridunum, or the ancient town Yclept Brechinia, or where Vaga's stream Encircles Ariconium, fruitful soil ! Whence flow nectareous wines, that well may vie With Massic, Setin, or renown's Falern.

Thus while my joyless minutes tedious flow, With looks demure, and silent pace, a dun, Horrible monster, hated by gods and men ! To my aerial citadel ascends. With vocal heel thrice thundering at my gate, With hideous accent thrice he calls; I know The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound. What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd, Confounded, to the dark recess I fly Of wood-hole; straight my bristling hairs erect Through sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews My shuddering limbs, and (wonderful to tell!) My tongue forgets her faculty of speech ; So horrible he seems! His faded brow Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard, And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints, Disastrous acts forbode; in his right hand Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribid,

Grievous to mortal eyes ; (ye gods, avert
Such plagues from righteous men !)Behind him stalks
Another monster not unlike himself,
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar callid
A catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods
With force incredible, and magic charms,
First have endued: if he his ample palm
Should haply on ill’-fated shoulder lay
Of debtor, strait his body, to the touch
Obsequious (as whilom kn hts ere wont)
To some enchanted castle is convey'd,
Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains,
In durance strict detain him, till, in form
Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.

Beware ye debtors! when ye walk, beware,
Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken
The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft
Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave,
Prompt to inchant some inadvertent wretch
With his unhallow'd touch. So (poets sing)
Grimalkin, to domestic vermin sworn
An everlasting foe, with watchful eye
Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap,
Protending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice
Sure ruin. So her disembowel'd web
Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads
Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands
Within her woven cell; the humming prey,
Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils
Inextricable, nor will aught avail
Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue ;
The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone,
And butterfly proud of expanded wings
Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares,
Useless resistance make: with eager strides,
She towering flies to her expected spoils;
Then, with envenom'd jaws, the vital blood
Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave
Their bulky carcases triumphant drags.

So pass my days. But, when nocturnal shades
This world envelop, and th' inclement air
Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts
With pleasant wines, and crackling blaze of wood;
Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light
Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk
Of loving friend, delights; distress'd, forlorn,
Amidst the horrors of the tedious night,
Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts
My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse
Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades,
Or desperate lady near a purling stream,
Or lover pendent on a willow-tree.
Meanwhile I labour with eternal drought,
And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat

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Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose:

Eurus and Auster, and the dreadful force But if a slumber haply does invade

Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, My weary limbs, my fancy, still awake,

Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Tipples imaginary pots of ale,

Long sail'd secure, or through th' Ægean deep, In vain; awake I find the settled thirst

Or the Ionian, till cruising near
Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush

Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarr'd, On Scylla, or Charybdis (dangerous rocks !)
Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays She strikes rebounding; whence the shatter'd oak,
Mature, John-apple, nor the downy peach,

So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Nor walnut in rough-furrow'd coat secure,

Admits the sea ; in at the gaping side Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay;

The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage Aflictions great! yet greater still remain : Resistless, overwhelming ; horrors seize My galligaskins, that have long withstood

The mariners ; death in their eyes appears; (pray: The winter's fury, and encroaching frosts

They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear, they By time subdued (what will not time subdue :) (Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, An horrid chasm disclose with orifice

Implacable, till, delug'd by the foam, Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds

The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.

HALIFAX-A. D. 1661-1715.

THE MAN OF HONOUR. OCCASION ED BY A POSTSCRIPT OF PENN'S LETTER. Not all the threats or favour of a crown, A prince's whisper, or a tyrant's frown, Can awe the spirit, or allure the mind, Of him, who to strict honour is inclin'd. Though all the pomp and pleasure that does wait On public places, and affairs of state, Should fondly court him to be base and great ; With even passions, and with settled face, He would remove the harlot's false embrace.

Though all the storms and tempests should arise, That church-magicians in their cells advise, And from their settled basis nations tear, He would unmov'd the mighty ruin bear; Secure in innocence contemn them all, And decently array'd in honours fall.

For this, brave Shrewsbury and Lumley's name Shall stand the foremost in the list of fame; Who first with steady minds the current broke, And to the suppliant monarch boldly spoke; “ Great Sir, renown'd for constancy, how just Hare we obey'd the crown, and serv'd our trust, Espous'd your cause and interest in distress, Yourself must witness, and our foes confess! Permit us then ill fortune to accuse, That you at last unhappy councils use, And ask the only thing we must refuse. Our lives and fortunes freely we'll expose, Honour alone we cannot, must not lose ; Honour, that spark of the celestial fire, That above nature makes mankind aspire ; Enpobles the rude passions of our frame With thirst of glory, and desire of fame; The richest treasure of a generous breast, That gives the stamp and standard to the rest. Wit, strength, and courage, are wild dangerous

force, Unless this softens and directs their course; And would you rob us of the noblest part? Accept a sacrifice without a heart? 'Tis much beneath the greatness of a throue To take the casket when the jewel's gone ; Debauch our principles, corrupt our race, And teach the nobles to be false and base: What confidence can you in them repose, Who, ere they serve you, all their value lose ? Who once enslave their conscience to their lust, Have lost their reins, and can no more be just.

" Of honour, men at first like women vice, Raise maiden scruples at unpractis’d vice; Their modest nature curbs the struggling flame,

And stifles what they wish to act with shame.
But once this fence thrown down, when they per-

ceive
That they may taste forbidden fruit and live ;
They stop not here their course, but safely in,
Grow strong, luxuriant and bold in sin ;
True to no principles, press forward still,
And only bound by appetite their will:
Now fawn and flatter, while this tide prevails,
But shift with every veering blast their sails.
Mark those that meanly truckle to your power,
They once deserted, and chang'd sides before,
And would tomorrow Mahomet adore.
On higher springs true men of honour move,
Free is their service, and unbought their love:
When danger calls, and honour leads the way,
With joy they follow, and with pride obey :
When the rebellious foe came rolling on,
And shook with gathering multitudes the throne,
Where were thy minions then? What arm, what

force, Could they oppose to stop the torrent's course ?

“ Then Pembroke, then the nobles firmly stood, Free of their lives, and lavish of their blood; But, when your orders to mean ends decline, With the same constancy they all resign."

Thus spake the youth, who open'd first the way, And was the phosph'rus to the dawning day; Follow'd by a more glorious splendid host, Than any age, or any realm can boast : So great their fame, so numerous their train, To name were endless, and to praise in vain; But Herbert and great Oxford merit more ; Bold is their fight, and more sublime they soar ; So high their virtue as yet wants a name, Exceeding wonder, and surpassing fame. Rise, glorious church, erect thy radiant head ; The storm is past, th' impending tempest fed ; Had fate decreed thy ruin or disgrace, It had not given such sons, so brave a race. When for destruction Heaven a realm designs, The symptoms first appear in slavish minds. These men would prop a sinking nation's weight, Stop falling vengeance, and reverse ev'n fate. Let other nations boast their fruitful soil, Their fragrant spices, their rich wine and oil ; In breathing colours, and in living paint, Let them excel; their mastery we grant. But to instruct the mind, to arm the soul With virtue which no dangers can controul, Exalt the thought, a speedy courage lend, That horror cannot shake, or pleasure bend; These are the English arts, these we profess,

WRITTEN FOR THE TOASTING-GLASSES OF THE

To be the same in misery and success ;

VERSES,
To teach oppressors law, assist the good,
Relieve the wretched, and subdue the proud.

KIT-CAT CLUB, 1703.
Such are our souls; but what doth worth avail

Duchess of St. Alban's. When kings commit to hungry priests the scale ?

The line of Vere, so long renown'd in arms, All merit's light when they dispose the weight,

Concludes with lustre in St. Alban's charms. Who either would embroil or rule the state; Defame those heroes who their yoke refuse,

Her conquering eyes have made their race complete;

They rose in valour, and in beauty set.
And blast that honesty they cannot use ;
The strength and safety of the crown destroy,

Duchess of Beaufort.
And the king's power against himself employ;

Offspring of a tuneful sire,

Blest with more than mortal fire ;
Affront his friends, deprive him of the brave;
Bereft of these, he must become their slave.

Likeness of a mother's face,

Blest with more than mortal grace ;
Men, like our money, come the most in play,
For being base, and of a coarse allay.

You with double charms surprise,
The richest medals, and the purest gold,

With his wit, and with her eyes. Of native value, and exactest mould,

Lady Mary Churchill. By worth conceal’d, in private closets shine,

Fairest and latest of the beauteous race, [face; For vulgar use too precious and too fine ;

Blest with your parents' wit, and her first blooming Whilst tin and copper with new stamping bright, Born with our liberties in William's reign, Coin of base metal, counterfeit and light,

Your eyes alone that liberty restrain. Do all the business of the nation's turn,

Duchess of Richmond. Rais'd in contempt, us'd and employ'd in scorn.

Of two fair Richmonds different ages boast, So shining virtues are for courts too bright,

Their's was the first, and our's the brightest toast ; Whose guilty actions fly the searching light: Rich in themselves, disdaining to aspire,

Th'adorers offerings prove who's most divine, Great without pomp, they willingly retire ;

They sacrific'd in water, we in wine. Give place to fools, whose rash misjudging sense

Lady Sunderland. Increases the weak measures of their prince ;

All Nature's charms in Sunderland appear, They blindly and implicitly run on,

Bright as her eyes, and as her reason clear: Nor see those dangers which the others shun: Yet still their force, to men not safely known, Who slow to act, each business duly weigh,

Seems undiscover'd to herself alone. Advise with freedom, and with care obey ;

Mademoiselle Spanheime. With wisdom fatal to their interest, strive

Admir'd in Germany, ador'd in France, To make their monarch lov'd, and nation thrive.

Your charms to brighter glory here advance; Such have no place where priests and women reign, The stubborn Britons own your beauty's claim, Who love fierce drivers, and a looser rein.

And with their native toasts enrol your name.

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A health to poets! all their days
May they have bread, as well as praise ;
Sense may they seek, and less engage
In papers fill’d with party-rage :
But if their riches spoil their vein,
Ye Muses make them poor again.

Now bring the weapon, yonder blade,
With which my tuneful pens are made.
I strike the scales that arm thee round,
And twice and thrice I print the wound;
The sacred altar foats with red,
And now he dies, and now he's dead.

How like the son of Jove I stand,
This hydra stretch'd beneath my hand :
Lay bare the monster's entrails here,
To see what dangers threat the year:
Ye gods! what sonnets on a wench!
What lean translations out of French !
'Tis plain this lobe is so unsound,
S prints, before the months gu round.

But hold, before I close the scene,
The sacred altar should be clean.
Oh, had I Shadwell's second bays,
Or, Tate! thy pert and humble lays !
(Ye pair, forgive me, when I vow
I never miss'd your works till now)
I'd tear the leaves to wipe the shrine,
(That only way you please the nine);
But since I chance to want these two,
I'll make the songs of Durfey do.

Rent from the corpse, on yonder pin,
I hang the scales that brac'd it in;
I hang my studious morning-gown,
And write my own inscription down.

“ This trophy from the Python won,
This robe, in which the deed was done,
These, Parnell, glorying in the feat,
Hung on these shelves, the Muses' seat.
Here ignorance and hunger found
Large realms of wit to ravage round:
Here ignorance and hunger fell;
Two foes in one I sent to hell.
Ye poets, who my labours see,
Come share the triumph all with me!
Ye critics! born to vex the Muse,
Go mourn the grand ally you lose.”

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THE BOOK-WORM.
Come hither, boy, we'll hunt to-day
The book-worm, ravening beast of prey,
Produc'd by parent earth at odds,
As fame reports it, with the gods.
Him frantic hunger wildly drives
Against a thousand authors' lives :
Through all the fields of wit he flies,
Dreadful his head with clustering eyes,
With horns without, and tusks within,
And scales to serve him for a skin.
Observe him nearly, lest he climb
To wound the bards of ancient time,
Or down the vale of fancy go
To tear some modern wretch below.
On every corner fix thine eye,
Or ten to one he slips thee by.
See where his teeth a passage eat:
We'll rouse him from the deep retreat.
But who the shelter's fore'd to give ?
'Tis sacred Virgil, as I live!
From leaf to leaf, from song to song,
He draws his tadpole form along,
He mounts the gilded edge before,
He's up, he scuds the cover o'er,
He turns, he doubles, there he past,
And here we have him, caught at last.
Insatiate brute, whose teeth abuse
The sweetest servants of the Muse.
(Nay never offer to deny,
I took thee in the fact to fly.)
His roses nipt in every page,
My poor Anacreon mourns thy rage ;
By thee my Ovid wounded lies ;
By thee my Lesbia's sparrow dies ;
Thy rabid teeth have half destroy'd
The work of love in Biddy Floyd,
They rent Belinda's locks away,
And spoil'd the Blouzelind of Gay.
For all, for every single deed,
Relentless justice bids thee bleed.
Then fall a victim to the nine,
Myself the priest, my desk the shrine.

Bring Homer, Virgil, Tasso near,
To pile a sacred altar here;
Hold, boy, thy hand outruns thy wit,
You reach'd the plays that Dennis writ;
You reach'd me Philips' rustic strain ;
Pray take your mortal bards again.

Come, bind the victim,--there he lies,
And here between his numerous eyes
This venerable dust I lay,
From manuscripts just swept away.

The goblet in my hand I take,
(For the libation's yet to make)

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AN ALLEGORY ON MAN. A thoughtful being long and spare, Our race of mortals call him Care (Were Homer living, well he knew What name the gods had call'd him too), With fine mechanic genius wrought, And lov'd to work, though no one bought.

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