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"Quelle manche ce galon eft groffiérement rangé;

"Voila quelque chofe de fort beau et dégagé !" This faid on his red heel he turns, and then Hums a foft minuet, and proceeds again :

"Well; now you 've Paris feen, you'll frankly own
"Your boafted London feems a country town;
"Has chriftianity yet reach'd your nation?
"Are churches built? Are mafquerades in fafhion?
"Do daily foups your dinners introduce?
"Are mufick, fnuff, and coaches, yet in ufe ?"
Pardon me, Sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather politee from courts abroad.

Like you, our courtiers keep a numerous train
To load their coach, and tradefmen dun in vain.
Nor has religion left us in the lurch;

And, as in France, our vulgar croud the church;
Our ladies too fupport the mafquerade,

The fex by nature love th' intriguing trade.
Straight the vain fop in ignorant raptures cries,
"Paris the barbarous world will civilize !"
Pray, Sir, point out among the paffing band
The prefent beauties who the town command.
"See yonder dame; ftri&t virtue chills her breaft,
"Mark in her eye demure the prude profeft;
"That frozen bofom native fire must want,
"Which boasts of conftancy to one gallant !
"This next the fpoils of fifty lovers wears,

Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears; "The necklace Florio's generous flame bestow'd, Clitander's fparkling gems her finger load;

"But

"But now her charms grow cheap by constant use, "She fins for scarfs, clock'd-ftockings, knots, and shoes. "This next, with fober gait and furious 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.

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Why have I promis'd things beyond my power? "Five affignations wait me at this hour!

"The fprightly countefs first my vifit claims,
"To-morrow fhall indulge inferior dames.
"Pardon me, Sir, that thus I take my leave;
"Gay Florimella flily twitch'd my fleeve."
Adieu, Monfieur !-The opera hour draws near.
Not fee the opera! all the world is there;
Where on the ftage th' embroider'd youth of France
In bright array attract the female glance:
This languishes, this ftruts, to fhow his mien,
And not a gold-clock'd stocking moves unseen.
But hark! the full orchestra strike the ftrings;
The hero ftruts, and the whole audience fings.

My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarfe and confus'd, like Babel's mingled found.
Hard chance had plac'd me near a noify throat,
That in rough quavers bellow'd every note.
Pray, Sir, fays I, fufpend awhile your fong;
The opera's drown'd; your lungs are wondrous ftrong;
I wish to hear your Roland's ranting train,
While he with rooted forefts itrows the plain.

VOL. I.

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Sudden he shrugs furprize, and answers quick,
"Monfieur apparement n'aime pas la mufique !"
Then turning round, he join'd th' ungrateful noife;
And the loud chorus thunder'd with his voice.
O footh me with fome foft Italian air,
Let harmony compofe my tortur'd ear!,
When Anaftafia's voice commands the ftrain,
The melting warble thrills through every vein;
Thought ftands fufpenfe, and filence pleas'd attends,
While in her notes the heavenly choir defcends.

But you'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleas'd and content with nothing but my own,
So ftrongly with this prejudice poffest,

He thinks French mufick and French painting beft.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some fcraping fiddler of their ball he quotes;
Talk of the fpirit Raphael's pencil gives,

Yet warm with life whofe fpeaking picture lives;
Yes, Sir, fays he, in colour and defign,
Rigaut and Raphael are extremely fine!

'Tis true his country's love tranfports his breast With warmer zeal than your old Greeks profeft. Ulyffes lov'd his Ithaca of yore,

Yet that fage traveller left his native fhore.
What ftronger virtue in the Frenchman fhines!
He to dear Paris all his life confines.

I'm not fo fond. There are, I must confefs,
Things which might make me love my country lefs.
I fhould not think my Britain had fuch charms,
If loft to learning, if enflav'd by arms.

France

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

But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's ftrong fenfe, and Moliere's humourous fcene.
Let Cambray's name be fung above the reft,
Whofe maxims, Pulteney, warm thy patriot breaft;
In Mentor's precepts wisdom ftrong and clear
Dictates fublime, and diftant nations hear.
Hear, all ye princes, who the world control,
What cares, what terrors, haunt the Tyrant's foul;
His conftant train are, Anger, Fear, Distrust.
To be a king, is to be good and juft;

His people he protects, their rights he faves,
And fcorns to rule a wretched race of flaves.
Happy, thrice happy, fhall the monarch reign,
Where guardian laws defpotic power restrain!
There fhall the plough-fhare break the ftubborn land,
And bending harveft tire the peafant's hand :
There Liberty her fettled manfion boafts,

There Commerce plenty brings from foreign coafts.
O Britain, guard thy laws, thy rights defend:
So fhall thefe bleflings to thy fons defcend!

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

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EPISTLE IV.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

PAUL METHUEN, Eso

THAT 'tis encouragement makes science spread,
Is rarely practis'd, though 'tis often faid.

When learning droops and fickens in the land,
What patron's found, to lend a faving hand?
True generous fpirits profperous vice deteft,
And love to cherish virtue when diftreft:
But, ere our mighty lords this fcheme purfue,
Our mighty lords must think and act like you.
Why must we climb the Alpine mountain's fides,
To find the feat where harmony refides?
Why touch we not fo foft the filver lute,
The chearful haut-boy, and the mellow flute?
'Tis not th' Italian clime improves the found;
But there the patrons of her fons are found.
Why flourish'd verfe in great Augustus' reign?
He and Mæcenas lov'd the Mufe's ftrain.
But now that wight in poverty must mourn
Who was (o cruel ftars!) a poet born.
Yet there are ways for authors to be great;
Write rancorous libels to reform the ftate :
Or, if you chufe more fure and ready ways,
Spatter a minifter with fulfome praife:

* Afterwards Sir Paul, K. B.

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