TO A LADY

WORKING A PAIR OF RUFFLES.

WHAT means this useless cost, this wanton pride?
To purchase foppery from yon foreign strand!
To spurn our native stores and arts aside,
And drain the riches of a needy land!

Pleased I survey, fair nymph, your happy skill,
Yet view it by no vulgar critic's laws:
With nobler aim I draw my

sober quill,

Anxious to list each art in Virtue's cause,

Go on, dear maid, your utmost power essay,
And if for fame your little bosom heave,
Know patriot hands your merit shall display,
And amply pay the graces they receive.

Let every nymph like you the gift prepare,

And banish foreign pomp and costly show; What lover but would burn the prize to wear,

Or blush by you pronounced his country's foe?

Your smiles can win when patriot speeches fail,

Your frowns control when justice threats in vain; O'er stubborn minds your softness can prevail, And placemen drop the bribe if you complain.

Then rise the guardians of your country's fame, Or wherefore were ye form'd like angels fair? By beauty's force our venal arts reclaim,

And save the drooping virtues from despair.

FEMALE EMPIRE,

A TRUE HISTORY.

LIKE Bruin's was Avaro's breast,
No softness harbour'd there;
While Sylvio some concern express'd,
When beauty shed a tear.

In Hymen's bands they both were tied,
As Cupid's archives' show ye;
Proud Celia was Avaro's bride,
And Sylvio's gentle Chloe.

Like other nymphs, at church they swore
To honour and obey,

Which, with each learned nymph before,
They soon explain'd away.

If Chloe now would have her will,
Her streaming eyes prevail'd;
Or if her swain proved cruel still,
Hysterics never fail'd.

But Celia scorn'd the plaintive moan,
And heart dissolving shower;

With flashing eye and angry tone
She best maintain'd her power.

Yet once the mandates of his Turk
Avaro durst refuse;

For why? important was his work,

'To register old shoes!'

The parish register.

And does (said she), the wretch dispute
My claims such clowns to rule?
If Celia cannot charm a brute,
She can chastise a fool.'

Then straight she to his closet flew,
His private thoughts she tore,
And from its place the poker drew,
That fell'd him on the floor.

Henceforth (said she) my calls regard,
Own mine the stronger plea;

Nor let thy vulgar cares retard
The female rites of tea.'

Victorious sex! alike your art
And puissance we dread;
For if you cannot break our heart,
'Tis plain you'll break our head.

Place me, ye gods, beneath the throne
Which gentle smiles environ,
And I'll submission gladly own,
Without a rod of iron.

ON

MR. SAMUEL COOKE'S POEMS.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1749.

INDEED, Master Cooke!

You have made such a book,
As the learned in pastry admire :
But other wits joke

To see such a smoke

Without any visible fire.

What a nice bill of fare,
Of whatever is rare,

And approved by the critics of taste!
Not a classical bit,

Every fancy to hit,

But here in due order is placed.

And

Yet, for all this parade,
You are but a dull blade,

your lines are all scragged and raw; Though you've hack'd and have hew'd, And have squeezed and have stew'd, Your forced-meat is n't all worth a straw.

Though your satire you spit,

"Tis n't season'd a bit,

And your puffs are as heavy as lead;
Call each dish what you will,

Boil, roast, hash, or grill,

Yet still it is all a calf's head.

I don't mind your huffing,
For you've put such vile stuff in,

I protest I'm as sick as a dog;
Were you leaner or fatter,

I'd not mince the matter,
You're not fit to dress Æsop a frog.

Then, good master Slice!

Shut up shop, if you're wise, And the' unwary no longer trepan; Such advice indeed is hard,

And may stick in your gizzard, But digest it as well as you can.

THE MISTAKE.

ON CAPTAIN BLUFF. 1750.

SAYS a Gosling, almost frighten'd out of her wits,
Help, mother, or else I shall go into fits.
I have had such a fright, I shall never recover,
O! that Hawk, that you've told us of over and over.
See there, where he sits, with his terrible face,
And his coat how it glitters all over with lace.
With his sharp hooked nose, and his sword at

his heel, [feel.' How my heart it goes pit-a-pat; pray, mother,

Says the Goose, very gravely, Pray don't talk

so wild;

Those looks are as harmless as mine are, my child. And as for his sword there, so bright and so nice, I'll be sworn 'twill hurt nothing besides frogs

and mice.

Nay, prithee don't hang so about me, let loose,
I tell thee he dares not say-bo to a Goose.
In short there is not a more innocent fowl, [Owl.'
Why, instead of a Hawk, look ye, child, 'tis an

TO A LADY,

WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT.

ONCE of forbidden fruit the mortal taste
Changed beauteous Eden to a dreary waste.
Here you may freely eat, secure the while
From latent poison or insidious guile.