At law his neighbour prosecute,

Bring action for assault and battery,

Or friends beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;

They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for B-b.'
Fraught with invective they ne'er go,
To folks at Paternoster Row ;
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others' throats, for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape;
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon a minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors,
Aping the conduct of superiors;

[1 Sir Robert Walpole.]

He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;

At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.

A SONNET.'

EEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;

MYRA, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet, why impair thy bright perfection?
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had MYRA follow'd my direction,

She long had wanted cause of fcar.

[1 First printed in The Bee, 20 October, 1759. It is said to be an imitation of Denis Sanguin de St.-Pavin, d. 1670.]

STANZAS,

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE.1

MIDST 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, 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: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise!

[1 First printed in The Busy Body, 22 October, 1759, a week after the news of Wolfe's death (on 13 September previous) had reached England.]

AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.1

OOD 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,
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,
And never followed 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,-

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.

[ First printed in The Bee, 27 October, 1759. It is modelled on the old song of M. de la Palice, a version of which is to be found in Part iii, of the Ménagiana.]

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,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she lived a twelve-month more,She had not died to-day.