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* Quelle manche ! ce galon est grossiérement rangé; * Voila quelque chose de fort beau et degagé !" This said: on his red heel he turns, and then Hums a soft minuet, and proceeds again : “ Well; now you ’ve Paris feen, you 'll frankly own • Your boasted London seems a country town; “ Has christianity yet

nation ? Are churches built ? Are masquerades in fashion ? “ Do daily foups your dinners introduce? 66 Are mufick, snuff, and coaches, yet in use ?" Pardon me, Sir; we know the Paris mode, And gather politese from courts abroad. Like you, our courtiers keep a numcrous train To load their coach, and tradesmen dun in vain. Nor has religion left us in the lurch ; And, as in France, our vulgar croud the church ;; Our ladies too support the masquerade, The sex by nature love th' intriguing trade. Straight the vain fop in ignorant raptures cries, 66 Paris the barbarous world will civilize !". Pray, Sir, point out among the passing band The present beauties who the town command. -". See yonder dame ; strict virtue chills her breast, 6. Mark in her eye demure the prude profest; 6. That frozen bosom native fire must want, or Which boasts of constancy to one gallant ! 66 This next the spoils of fifty lovers wears, " Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears; 166 The necklace Florio's generous flame bestow'd, * Clitander's sparkling gems her finger load;

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« But now her charms grow cheap by constanr'ufe, “She fins for scarfs, clock’d-stockings, knots, and fhoes. “This next, with fober gait and serious leer, " Wearies her knees with morn and evening prayer;' « She fcorns th’ ignoble love of feeble pages, « But with three abbots in one night engages. “ This with the cardinal her nights employs, “Where holy finews confecrate her joys.

Why have I promis'd things beyond my power? “ Five asignations wait me at this hour! “ The sprightly countess first my visit claims, “ To-morrow shall indulge in férior dames. “ Pardon me, Sir, that tlus I take my leave; " Gay Florimella flily twitch'd my

fleeve." Adieu, Monfieur !--The opera hour draws near. Not see the opera ! all the world is there'; Where on the stage th’ embroider'd youth of France : In bright array attract the female glance : This languishes, this struts, to show his mien, And not a gold-clock'd stocking moves unseen. But hark! the full orcheftra strike the strings ; The hero ftruts, and the whole audience fings.

My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound, Iloarse and confus’d, like Babel's iningled found. Hard chance had plac'd me near a noisy throat, That in rough quavers bellow'd every note. Pray, Sir, says I, suspend awhile your song; The opera's drown'd; your lungs are wondrous strong; I will to hear your Roland's ranting strain, While he with rooted forests strows the plain. VOL. I.



Sudden he shrugs furprize, and answers quick,
“ Monsieur apparement n'aime pas la musique !"
Then turning round, he join'd th’ ungrateful noiícs
And the loud chorus thunder'd with his voice.

O footh me with some soft Italian air,
Let harmony compose my tortur'd ear!
When Anastasia's voice commands the strain,
The melting warble thrills through every vein ;
Thought stands suspense, and filence pleas'd attends,
While in her notes the heavenly choir descends.

But you 'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleas’d and content with nothing but my own,
So strongly with this prejudice pofseft,
He thinks French mufick and French painting best.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's potes,
Some scraping fiddler of their ball he quotes ;
Talk of the spirit Raphael's pencil gives,
Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives;
Yes, Sir, says he, in colour and design,
Rigaut and Raphael are extremely fine !

'Tis true his country's love transports his breast
With warmer zeal than your old Greeks profeft.
Ulysses lov'd his Ithaca of yore,
Yet that fage traveller left his native shore.
What stronger virtue in the Frenchman shines !
He to dear Paris all his life confines.
I'm not so fond. There are, I must confess,
Things which might make me love my country less.
I should not think my Britain had such charms,
If lost to learning, if enlar'd by arms.


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France has her Richlieus and her Colberts known;
And then, I grant it, France in science shone :
We too, I own, without such aids'may chance
In ignorance and pride to rival France.

But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's strong sense, and Moliere's humourous scene...
Let Cambray's name be sung above the rest,
Whose maxims, Pulteney, warm thy patriot breast;
In Mentor's precepts wisdom strong and clear
Dietates sublime, and distant nations hear.
Hear, all ye princes, who the world control,
What cares, what terrors, haunt the Tyrant's soul;
His constant train are, Anger, Fear, Diltrust.
To be a king, is to be good and just;
His people he protects, their rights he faves,
And scorns to rule a wretched race of slaves.

Happy, thrice happy, shall the monarch reign,
Where guardian laws despotic power restrain !
There shall the plough-share break the stubborn land, ,
And bending harvest tire the peasant's hand :
There Liberty her settled mansion boasts,
There Commerce plenty brings from foreign coasts.
O Britain, guard thy laws, thy rights defend :
So shall these blessings to thy fons descend !

You ’ll think 'tis time some other theme to chufe,
And not with beaux and fops fatigue the Mufe:
Should I let fatire loose on English ground,
There fools of various character abound;
But here my verse is to one race confin'd,
All Frenchmen are of petit-maitre kind.


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THAT 'tis encouragement makes science spread,

Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often said.
When learning droops and fickens in the land,
What patron 's found, to lend a faving hand?
True generous spirits prosperous vice detest,
And love to cherith virtue when distreft :
Rut, cre our mighty lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty lords must think and act like you.

Why must we climb the pine mountain's fides,
To find the feat where harmony resides?
Why touch we not fo foft the silver lute,
The chcarful laut-boy, and the mellow flute !
'Tis not th’ Italian clime improves the found;'
But there the patrons of her sons are found.

Why flourish'd verse in great Augustus’ rcign?
He and Mæcenas lov'd the Muse's strain.
But now that wight in poverty must mourn
Who was (o cruel stars!) a poet born.
Yer there are ways for authors to be great ;
Write rancorous libels to reform the siate :
Or, if you crufe more sure and ready ways,
Spatter a minifter.with fulsome praise :
* Afterwards Sir Paul, K. B.


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