WHAT! no way left to shun th’ inglorious stage,
    And save from infamy my sinking age!
    Scarce half alive, oppress’d with many a year,
    What in the name of dotage drives me here?
    A time there was, when glory was my guide,             5
    Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
    Unaw’d by pow’r, and unappall’d by fear,
    With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
    But this vile hour disperses all my store,
    And all my hoard of honour is no more.                10
    For ah! too partial to my life’s decline,
    Caesar persuades, submission must be mine;
    Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys,
    Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin’d to please.
    Here then at once, I welcome every shame,             15
    And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
    No more my titles shall my children tell,
    The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
    This day beyond its term my fate extends,
    For life is ended when our honour ends.               20

        SURE ’twas by Providence design’d,
          Rather in pity, than in hate,
        That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
          To save him from Narcissus’ fate.

        SAY, cruel IRIS, pretty rake,
          Dear mercenary beauty,
        What annual offering shall I make,
          Expressive of my duty?

        My heart, a victim to thine eyes,               5
          Should I at once deliver,
        Say, would the angry fair one prize
          The gift, who slights the giver?

        A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
          My rivals give—and let ’em;                  10
        If gems, or gold, impart a joy,
          I’ll give them—when I get ’em.

        I’ll give—but not the full-blown rose,
          Or rose-bud more in fashion;
        Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose        15
          A transitory passion.

        I’ll give thee something yet unpaid,
          Not less sincere, than civil:
        I’ll give thee—Ah! too charming maid,
          I’ll give thee—To the devil.                 30

        WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
          Lost to every gay delight;
        MYRA, too sincere for feigning,
          Fears th’ approaching bridal night.

        Yet, why impair thy bright perfection?         5
          Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
        Had MYRA followed my direction,
          She long had wanted cause of fear.

    AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
      Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
    Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
      And quells the raptures which from pleasures start.

    O WOLFE! to thee a streaming flood of woe,             5
      Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear;
    QUEBEC in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
      Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

    Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
      And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:        10
    Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead—
      Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise!

        GOOD people all, with one accord,
          Lament for Madam BLAIZE,
        Who never wanted a good word—
          From those who spoke her praise.
        The needy seldom pass’d her door,              5
          And always found her kind;
        She freely lent to all the poor,—
          Who left a pledge behind.
        She strove the neighbourhood to please,
          With manners wond’rous winning,             10
        And never follow’d wicked ways,—
          Unless when she was sinning.
        At church, in silks and satins new,
          With hoop of monstrous size,
        She never slumber’d in her pew,—              15
          But when she shut her eyes.
        Her love was sought, I do aver,
          By twenty beaux and more;
        The king himself has follow’d her,—
          When she has walk’d before.                 20

        But now her wealth and finery fled,
          Her hangers-on cut short all;
        The doctors found, when she was dead,—
          Her last disorder mortal.
        Let us lament, in sorrow sore,                25
          For Kent-street well may say,
        That had she liv’d a twelve-month more,—
          She had not died to-day.

    WHERE the Red Lion flaring o’er the way,
    Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
    Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne,
    Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;
    There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,             5
    The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;
    A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray,
    That dimly show’d the state in which he lay;
    The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
    The humid wall with paltry pictures spread:            10
    The royal game of goose was there in view,
    And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
    The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,
    And brave prince William show’d his lamp-black face:
    The morn was cold, he views with keen desire           15
    The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;
    With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d,
    And five crack’d teacups dress’d the chimney board;
    A nightcap deck’d his brows instead of bay,
    A cap by night—a stocking all the day!                 20

    FOR you, bright fair, the nine address their lays,
    And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
    The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
    Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
    See how she moves along with every grace,              5
    While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.
    She speaks! ’tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
    Ye gods! what transport e’er compared to this.
    As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
    With fond complaint addressed the listening Jove,     10
    ’Twas joy, and endless blisses all around,
    And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
    Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
    And felt her charms, without disguise, within.

        YE Muses, pour the pitying tear
          For Pollio snatch’d away;
        O! had he liv’d another year!—
          He had not died to-day.
        O! were he born to bless mankind,               5
          In virtuous times of yore,
        Heroes themselves had fallen behind!—
          Whene’er he went before.
        How sad the groves and plains appear,
          And sympathetic sheep;                       10
        Even pitying hills would drop a tear!—
          If hills could learn to weep.
        His bounty in exalted strain
          Each bard might well display;
        Since none implor’d relief in vain!—           15
          That went reliev’d away.
        And hark! I hear the tuneful throng
          His obsequies forbid,
        He still shall live, shall live as long!—
          As ever dead man did.                        20

        LET not the hungry Bavius’ angry stroke
        Awake resentment, or your rage provoke;
        But pitying his distress, let virtue shine,
        And giving each your bounty, let him dine;
        For thus retain’d, as learned counsel can,      5
        Each case, however bad, he’ll new japan;
        And by a quick transition, plainly show
        ’Twas no defect of yours, but pocket low,
        That caused his putrid kennel to o’erflow.

    ’TWAS you, or I, or he, or all together,
    ’Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether;
    This, I believe, between us great or small,
    You, I, he, wrote it not—’twas Churchill’s all.

        IN all my Enna’s beauties blest,
          Amidst profusion still I pine;
        For though she gives me up her breast,
          Its panting tenant is not mine.

        WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
          And finds too late that men betray,
        What charm can soothe her melancholy,
          What art can wash her guilt away?

        The only art her guilt to cover,               5
          To hide her shame from every eye,
        To give repentance to her lover,
          And wring his bosom, is—to die.

    WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser!
    Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
    Had she consulted me, she should have made
    Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
    Warm’d up each bustling scene, and in her rage            5
    Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
    My life on’t, this had kept her play from sinking;
    Have pleas’d our eyes, and sav’d the pain of thinking.
    Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,
    What if I give a masquerade?—I will.                     10
    But how? ay, there’s the rub! (pausing)—I’ve got my cue:
    The world’s a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you.
                                (To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.)
    ——, what a group the motley scene discloses!
    False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
    Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside ’em,        15
    Patriots, in party-coloured suits, that ride ’em.
    There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once more
    To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
    These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
    Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen,                      20
    Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
    Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman:
    The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
    And tries to kill, ere she’s got power to cure.
    Thus ’tis with all—their chief and constant care         25
    Is to seem everything but what they are.
    Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
    Who seems to have robb’d his vizor from the lion;
    Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
    Looking as who should say, D——! who’s afraid?            30
                                                (Mimicking)

    Strip but his vizor off, and sure I am
    You’ll find his lionship a very lamb.
    Yon politician, famous in debate,
    Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
    Yet, when he deigns his real shape t’ assume,            35
    He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
    Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
    And seems to every gazer all in white,
    If with a bribe his candour you attack,
    He bows, turns round, and whip—the man’s a black!        40
    Yon critic, too—but whither do I run?
    If I proceed, our bard will be undone!
    Well then a truce, since she requests it too:
    Do you spare her, and I’ll for once spare you.

       ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,
         And waken every note of woe;
       When truth and virtue reach the skies,
         ’Tis ours to weep the want below!

       When truth and virtue, etc.                         5

        The praise attending pomp and power,
          The incense given to kings,
        Are but the trappings of an hour—
          Mere transitory things!
      The base bestow them: but the good agree            10
      To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
        But when to pomp and power are join’d
        An equal dignity of mind—
    When titles are the smallest claim—
        When wealth and rank and noble blood,             15
        But aid the power of doing good—
    Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame.

        Bless’d spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom
        Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
          How hast thou left mankind for heaven!          20
        Even now reproach and faction mourn.
        And, wondering how their rage was borne,
          Request to be forgiven.
        Alas! they never had thy hate:
          Unmov’d in conscious rectitude,                 25
          Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
        Nor wanted man’s opinion to be great.
        In vain, to charm thy ravish’d sight,
          A thousand gifts would fortune send;
        In vain, to drive thee from the right,            30
          A thousand sorrows urg’d thy end:
    Like some well-fashion’d arch thy patience stood,
    And purchas’d strength from its increasing load.
    Pain met thee like a friend that set thee free;
    Affliction still is virtue’s opportunity!             35
        Virtue, on herself relying,
          Ev’ry passion hush’d to rest,
        Loses ev’ry pain of dying
          In the hopes of being blest.
        Ev’ry added pang she suffers                      40
          Some increasing good bestows,
        Ev’ry shock that malice offers
          Only rocks her to repose.