Complain not if attachments lewd and base Oh barb'rous! would'st thou with a Gothic hand Pull down the schools-what!-all the schools i' th' land; Or throw them up to liv'ry-nags and grooms, Or turn them into shops and auction rooms? Would'st thou, possessor of a flock, employ And feed him well, and give him handsome pay, Merely to sleep, and let them run astray? The public character its colour draws; And, though I would not advertise them yet, (Forgive the crime) I wish them, I confess, Or better manag'd, or encourag'd less. THE DEATH OF MRS. THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH. Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed, O share Maria's grief! Her fav'rite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Assassin'd by a thief. Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung, And though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blest, Well-taught, he all the sounds express'd Of flagelet or flute. The honours of his ebon poll Were brighter than the sleekest mole; His bosom of the hue With which Aurora decks the skies, When piping winds shall soon arise To sweep up all the dew. Above, below, in all the house, Dire foe, alike to bird and mouse, On props of smoothest-shaven wood, Well-lattic'd-but the grate, alas! Not rough with wire of steel or brass, For Bully's plumage sake, But smooth with wands from Ouse's side, With which, when neatly peel'd and dried, The swains their baskets make. |