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Pardon me,

" Quelle manche ! ce galon est grossiérement rangé;
66 Voila quelque chose de fort beau et degagé !”
This said : on his red heel he turns, and then
Hums a soft minuet, and proceeds agains"
“ Well; now you've Paris seen, you ’ll'frankly own
* Your boasted London seems a country town ;
“ Has christianity yet reach'd your nation?
“ Are churches built? Are masquerades in fashion?
“ Do daily soups your dinners introduce?
" Are musick, snuff, and coaches, yet in use ?"

Sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather politele from courts abroad.
Like you, our courtiers keep a numerous train
To load their coach, and tradesmen den 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.

nht the vain fop in ignorant raptures cries,
ris the barbarous world will civilize !"

Sir, point out among the passing band
The present heauties who the town command.
“ See yonder dame; strict virtue chills her breast,
“ Mark in her eye demure the prude profelt;
6. That frozen bofom native fire must want,
66 Which boasts of constancy to one gallant !
“ 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 ;

- But

3

“But now her charms grow cheap by constant use,
“She fins for scarfs, clock’d-stockings, knots, and shoes.
“ This next, with sober gait and forious 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 affignations wait me at this hour!
“ The sprightly countess first my visit claims,
“To-imorrow shall indulge inferior dames.
“ Pardon me, Sir, that thus I take my leave;
“Gay Florimella flily twitch'd my

fleeve.
Adieu, Monsieur !--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 attraêt the female glance :
'This Janguishes, this struts, to low his mien,
And not a gold-clock’d stocking moves unseen.
But hark! the full orchestra strike the strings;
The hero ftruts, and the whole audience sings.

My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarse and confus’d, like Babel's mingled sound.
Hard chance had plac'd me near a noily throat,
That in rough quavers bellow'd every note.
Pray, Sir, says I, suspend awhile your fons;
The opera's drown'd; your lungs are wondrous firons ;
I will to hear your Roland's ranting train,
While he with rooted forests itrows the plain.
Voz. I.

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Sucien

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Sudden he shrugs surprize, and answers quick,
“ Monsieur apparement n'aime pas la musique !"
Then turning round, he join'd th' ungrateful noise;
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 meling warble thrills through every vein ;
Thought stands suspense, and silence pleas'd attends,
While in her notes the heavenly choir descends.
But
sou

'll imagine l'in a Frenchman grown,
Pleas'd and content with nothing but my own,
So itrongly with this prejudice poficft,
He thinks French musick and French painting best.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some scraping fiddler of their ball he quotes;
Talk of the spirit Raphael's pencil gives,
Yet warm with life whose speaking pi&ture 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 zcal than your old Greeks profest. Ulyffes lov'd his Ithaca of

yore,
Yet that sage traveller left his native fore.
What stronger virtue in the Frenchman shines !
He to dear Paris all his life confincs.
I'm not so fond. There are, I must confess,
Things which might make me love my country less.
I Thould not think iny Britain had such charms,
If lost to learning, if enslav'd by arms.

France

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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 Francc.

But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's strong fenfe, and Moliere's lumourous 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
Dictates fublime, and distant nations licar.
Hear, all ye princes, who the world control,
What cares, what terrors, haunt the Tyrant's soul:
His constant train are, Anger, Fear, Distruít.
To be a king, is to be good and just;
His people he prote&ts, their rights he saves,
And scorns to rule a wretched race of slaves.

Happy, thrice happy, thall the monarch reign,
Where guardian laws despotic poucr rehrain !
There shall the plough-thare break the stubborn land,
And bending harvest tire the peasant's hand :
There Liberty her fettled manfion boasts,
There Commerce plenty brings from foreign coalls.
O Britain, guard thy laws, thy rights defend :
So shall these blessings to thy fons descend I

You'll think 'tis time some other theme to chuse,
And not with beaux and fops fatigue the Mule :
Should I let fa:ire loose on English ground,
There foois of various characler abound;
But here my verse is to one race confin’d,
All Frenchmen arc 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 saving hand?
True generous spirits prosperous vice detest,
And love to cherish virtue when distreft :
Rut, ere our mighty lords this scheme pursue,
Our mighty lords must think and act like you.

Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's sides,
To find the seat where harmony resides?
Why touch we not so loft the filver lute,
The chearful haut-boy, and the mellow flute ?
'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the sound;
But there the patrons of her sons are found.

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

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