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'Tis done

our Monarch to the Camp returns,

The Gallic Armies flytheir Navy burns,

And Earth and Seas all bow at his Command,
And Europe owns her Peace from his victorious Hand.

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The AUSTRIAN Eagle.

T Anna's call the Auftrian Eagle flies,
Bearing her Thunder to the fouthern Skies;
Where a rash Prince with an unequal Sway,
Inflames the Region, and mifguides the Day;
'Till the Ufurper from his Chariot hurl'd,
Leaves the true Monarch to command the World.

The Nature of DREAMS..

AT dead of Night imperial Reason fleeps,

And Fancy with her Train loose Revels keeps,

Then airy Phantoms a mixt Scene display,
Of what we heard, or faw, or wish'd by Day;
For Memory thofe Images retains,

Which Paffion form'd, and ftill the ftrongeft reigns.
Huntsmen renew the Chace they lately run,

And Gen'rals fight again their Battles won.
Spectres and Furies haunt the Murd❜rers Dreams,
Grants or Disgraces are the Courtier's Themes.
The Mifer fpies a Thief, or a new Hoard,
The Cit's a Knight, the Sycophant a Lord.
Thus Fancy's in the wild Distraction loft,
With what we most abhor, or covet most.
But of all Paffions that our Dreams control,
Love prints the deepest Image in the Soul;

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For vigorous Fancy, and warm Blood dispense
Pleafures fo lively that they rival Senfe.
Such are the Tranfports of a willing Maid,
Not yet by Time and Place, to act betray'd,
Place, to act betray'd,
Whom Spies, or fome Virtue force to fly
That Scene of Joy, which yet fhe dies to try.
Till Fancy bawds, and by myfterious Charms,
Brings the dear Object to her longing Arms;
Unguarded then the melts, acts fierce Delight,
And curfes the Returns of envious Light.
In fuch bleft Dreams Biblys enjoys a Flame,
Which waking the detefts, and dares not name.
Ixion gives a loofe to his wild Love,
And in his airy Vifrons cuckolds Fove.
Honours and State before this Phantom fall;
For Sleep, like Death, its Image, equals all.

Verfes imitated from the French of Monfieur Maynard, to Cardinal Richelieu.

I.

WHEN Money and my Blood ran high,

My Mufe was reckon'd wond'rous pretty ;

The Sports and Smiles did round her fly,
Enamour'd with her smart Concetti.

II.

Now (who'd have thought it once?) with pain
She ftrings her Harp, whilft freezing Age

But feebly runs thro' ev'ry Vein,

And chills my brisk poetic Rage.

III.

I properly have ceas'd to live,

To Wine and Women, dead in Law; And foon from Fate I fhall receive

A Summons to the Shades to go.

IV. The

IV.

The warrior Ghofts will round me come
To hear of fam'd Ramillia's Fight,
Whilft the vex'd Bourbons thro' the Gloom
Retire to th' utmoft Realms of Night.

V.

Then I, my Lord, will tell how you
With Penfions every Mufe inspire';
Who Marlb'rough's Conquests did pursue,
And to his Trumpets tun'd the Lyre.

VI.

But should fome drolling Sprite demand,
Well, Sir, what Place had you, I pray?
How like a Coxcomb fhould I ftand!
What would your Lordship have me fay ?

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To Mr. EDMUND SMIT H.

UN, rarely credit common Fame,

MUN

Unheeded let her praise or blame;
As Whimfies guide the Goffip Tattles,
Of Wits, of Beauties, and of Battles;
To Day the Warrior's Brow fhe crowns,
For naval Spoils, and taken Towns:
To-morrow all her Spite she rallies,
And votes the Victor to the Gallies.
Nor in her Vifits can fhe fpare
The Reputation of the Fair:

For Inftance,- Chloe's Bloom did boaft
A while to be the reigning Toaft :
Lean hectic Sparks abandon'd Bohea,
And in Beer-Glaffes pledg'd to Chloe.
What Fops of Figure did fhe bring
To the Front-boxes and the Ring?
While Nymphs o' Quality look'd fullen,
As breeding Wives, or moulting Pullen.

Blefa'd

Blefs'd Charmer She,till prying Fame

Incog. to Mifs's Toilet came ;.
Where in the Gally-pots fhe fpy'd
Lilies, and Roses that defy'd

The Froft of Age with certain Pickles,
They call-Cofmetics for the Freckles ;
Away fhe flew with what fhe wanted,
And told at Court that Chloe painted.

• Then who'd on common Fame rely?
• Who's chief Employment's to decry ;
A cogging, fickle, jilting Female,
As ever ply'd at fix in the Mall;
• The Father of all Fibs begat her
• On fome old News man's fufty Daughter.
OCAPTAIN! Taifez vous Twere hard
Her Novels ne'er fhould have regard:
One Proof I'll in her Favour give,
Which none but you will disbelieve.
When Phabus sent her to recite
The Praises of the most Polite,
Whofe Scenes have been, in ev'ry Age,
The Glories of the British Stage;
Then fhe, to rigid Truth confin'd,
Your Name with lofty Shakespear join'd ;
And fpeaking, as the God directed,
The Praise she gave was unfufpected.

71

The SPEL L.

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WHENE'ER I Wive, young Strephon cry'd,

that o'er the Noofe prefide!

Wit, Beauty, Wealth, and Humour give,

Or let me ftill a Rover live:
But if all thefe no Nymph can share,
And I'm predeftin'd to the Snare,
Let mine, ye Pow'rs! be doubly Fair.

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Thus

Thus pray'd the Swain in heat o' Blood,
Whilft Cupid at his Elbow ftood;
And twiching him, faid, Youth be wife,
Ask not Impoffibilities:

A faultlefs Make, a manag'd Wit,
Humour and Fortune never met:
But if a Beauty you'd obtain,
Court fome bright Phillis o' the Brain ;
The dear Idea long enjoy,

Clean is the Bliss, and will not cloy.
But trust me, Youth, for I'm fincere,
And know the Ladies to a Hair ;
Howe'er fmall Poets whine upon it,
In Madrigal, and Song, and Sonnet;
Their Beauty's but a SPELL to bring
A Lover to th' inchanted Ring,
Ere the Sack-poffet is digefted,
Or half of Hymen's Taper wafted,
The winning Air, the wanton Trip,'
The radiant Eye, the velvet Lip,
From which you fragrant Kiffes ftole,
And seem to fuck her fpringing Soul.
These, and the reft, you doted on,
Are naufeous or infipid grown;
The SPELL diffolves, the Cloud is gone,
And Sacharissa turns to Joan.

JUVENAL.

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