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They count that woman's prudence little,
Who fets her heart on things so brittle.
But are those wise-men's inclinations
Fixt on more strong, more sure foundations ?
If all that 's frail we must despise,
No human view or scheme is wise.
Are not Ambition's hopes as weak?
They swell like bubbles, shine, and break.
A Courtier's promise is so slight,
'Tis made at noon, and broke at night.
What pleasure 's sure? The Miss you keep
Breaks both your fortune and your fleep.
The man who loves a country-life
Breaks all the comforts of his wife ;
And, if he quit his farm and plough,
His wife in town may break her vow.
Love, Laura, love, while youth is warm,
For each new winter breaks a charm ;
And woman 's not like china fold,
But cheaper grows in growing old;
Then quickly chuse the prudent part,
Or else you break a faithful heart.
ON A MISCELL ANY OF POEMS.
“ Ipfa varietate tentamus efficere ut alia alis, quædam “ fortasse omnibus placeant.”
S when some skilful cook, to please each guest,
Would in one mixture comprehend a feast,
With due proportion and judicious care
He fills his dish with different sorts of fare,
Fishes and fowls deliciously unite,
To feast at once the taste, the smell, and fight.
So, Bernard, must a Miscellany be
Compounded of all kinds of poetry;
The Mufes' olio, which all tastes may fit,
And treat each reader with his darling wit.
Would'st thou for Miscellanies raise thy fame,
And bravely rival Jacob's mighty name,
Let all the Muses in the piece conspire ;
The lyric bard must strike th' harmonious lyre ;
Heroic strains must here and there be found,
And nervous sense be sung in lofty sound;
Let elegy in moving numbers flow,
And fill some pages with melodious woe;
Let not your amorous fongs too numerous provey
Nor glut thy reader with abundant love ;
Satire muft interfere, whose pointed rage
May lash the madness of a vicious age ;
Satire ! the Muse that never fails to hit,
For if there's scandal, to be sure there 's wit.
Tire not our patience with Pindaric lays,
Those fwell the piece, but very rarely please;
Let short-breath'd cpigram its force confine,
And strike at follies in a fingle line.
Tranflations should throughout the work be fown,
And Homer's godlike Muse be made our own;
Horace in useful numbers should be fung,
And Virgil's thoughts adorn the British tongue.
Let Ovid tell Corinna's hard disdain,
And at her door in melting notes complain ;
His tender accents pitying virgins move,
And charm the listening ear with tales of love.
Let every classic in the volume shine,
And each contribute to thy great design ;
Through various fubje&ts let the reader range,
And raise his fancy with a grateful change.
Variety's the source of joy below,
From whence still fresh revolving pleasures flow.
In books and love, the mind one end pursues,
And only change th' expiring flame renews.
Where Buckinghain will condescend to give,
That honour'd piece to distant times must live;
When noble Sheffield strikes the trembling strings,
The little Lores rejoice, and clap their wings;
Anacreon lives, they cry, th' harınonious swain
Retunes the lyre, and tries his wonted strain,
'Tis he-our lợft Anacreon lives' again.
But, when th’ illustrious poet soars above
The sportive revels of the God of Love,
Like Maro's Mufe, he takes a loftier Aight,
And towers beyond the wondering Cupid's fight.
If thou would'st have thy volume stand the test,
And, of all others be reputed best,
Let Congreve teach the listening groves to mourn,
As when he wept o'er fair Pastora's urn.
Let Prior's Muse with softening accents move,
Soft as, the strains of constant Emma's love :
Or let his fancy chuse some jovial theme,
As when he told Hans Carvel's jealous dream ;
Prior th' admiring reader entertains
With Chaucer's humour, and with Spenser's strains.
Waller in Granville lives; when Mira fings,
With Waller's hand he strikes the founding stringsy,
With sprightly turns his noble genius shines,
And manly fense adorns his eafy lines.
On Addison's sweet lays attention waits,
And silence guards the place while he repeats
His Mufe alike on every subject charms,
Whether the paints the god of love, or arms :
In him pathetic Ovid sings again,
And Homer's Iliad shines in his Campaign.
Whenever Garth shall raise his sprightly song,
Sense flows in eafy numbers from his tongue;
Great Phoebus in his learned son we fee,
Alike in physic, as in poetry.
When Pope's harmonious Muse with pleasure roves
Amidst the plains, the murmuring streams, and groves,
Attentive Echo, pleas'd to hear his fongs,
Through the glad shade each warbling note prolongs ;
His various numbers charm our ravish'd ears,
His steady judgement far out-shoots his years,
And early in the youth the god appears.
From thefe successful bards collect thy strains;
And praise with profit shall reward thy pains :
Then, while calves-leather-binding bears the fway,
And sheep-skin to its fleeker gloss gives way;
While neat old Elzevir is reckon'd better
Then Pirate Hill's brown sheets and scurvy letter;
While print-admirers careful Aldus chuse,
Before John Morphew, or the weekly news ;
So long shall live thy praise in books of fame,
And Tonson yield to Lintott's lofty name,