Remembrance veils his rage, but fwells his fate;
Griev'd I forgive, and am grown cool too late.
Young, and unthoughtful then; who knows, one day,
What ripening virtues might have made their way!
He might have liv'd, till Folly died in Shame,
Till kindling wisdom felt a thirst for fame.

He might, perhaps, his country's friend have prov'd;
Both happy, gen'rous, candid, and belov'd.
He might have fav'd some worth, now doom'd to fall;
And I, perchance, in him, have murder'd all,
O fate of late repentance! always vain :
Thy remedies but lull undying pain.

Where fhall my hope find reft ?—No motner's care
Shielded my infant innocence with prayer:
No father's guardian hand my youth maintain'd,
Call'd forth my virtues, or from vice restrain'd.
Is it not thine to snatch fome pow'rful arm,
First to advance, then screen from future harm?
I am return'd from death, to live in pain!
Or wou'd Imperial Pity fave in vain ?
Diftruft it not-What blame can Mercy find,
Which gives, at once, a life, and rears a mind ?
Mother, mifcall'd, farewell-of foul fevere,
This fad reflection yet may force one tear:
All I was wretched by to you I ow'd,
Alone from ftrangers ev'ry comfort flow'd!

Loft to the life you gave, your fon no more,
And now adopted, who was doom❜d before ;
New-born, I may a nobler mother claim,
But dare not whisper her immortal name;

Supremely

Supremely lovely, and ferenely great!
Majeftic mother of a kneeling ftate!

Queen of a people's heart, who ne'er, before,
Agreed-Yet now, with one confent, adore!
One conteft yet remains in this defire,

Who most shall give applause, where all admire.

23

THE

THE

POET AND HIS PATRON.

Mr. More was a poet that never had justice done him while living; there are few of the moderns have a more correct tafte, or a more pleasing manner of expreffing their thoughts. It was upon these fables he chiefly founded his reputation; yet they are, by no means, his best production.

WHY, Celia, is your spreading waist

So loofe, fe negligently lac'd?

Why must the wrapping bed-gown hide
Your fnowy bofom's fwelling pride?
How ill that dress adorns your head,
Diftain'd, and rumpled, from the bed!
Thofe clouds, that fhade your blooming face,
A little water might difplace,

As Nature, ev'ry morn, bestows

The crystal dew, to cleanse the rofe:
Those treffes, as the raven black,

That wav'd in ringlets down your back,
Uncomb'd, and injur'd by neglect,
Destroy the face which once they deckt.
Whence this forgetfulness of drefs?
Pray, madam, are you marry'd? Yes.
VOL. II.

C

Nay,

Nay, then, indeed, the wonder ceases;
No matter, then, how loose your dress is ;
The end is won, your fortune's made;
Your fifter, now, may take the trade.
Alas! "what pity 'tis, to find

This fault in half the female kind!
From hence proceed averfion, ftrife,
And all that fours the wedded life.
Beauty can only point the dart;
'Tis neatness guides it to the heart :
Let neatnefs, then, and beauty, frive
To keep a wav'ring flame alive.

'Tis harder far (you'll find it true)
To keep the conqueft, than fubdue;
Admit us once behind the screen,
What is there farther to be feen ?
A newer face may raise the flame;
But ev'ry woman is the fame.

Then study, chiefly, to improve

The charm that fix'd your husband's love;
Weigh well his humour. Was it dress

That gave your beauty power to bless?
Purfue it ftill; be neater feen;
'Tis always frugal to be clean;

So fhall you keep alive defire,

And Time's swift wing shall fan the fire.
In garret high (as ftories fay)

A Poet fung his tuneful lay;

So foft, so smooth his verfe, you'd swear
Apollo and the mufes there;

Thro'